


Sacrifice to Checkmate

by corullance



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood Magic, Bonding, Bottom!Peter, Control Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Mates, Mating, Mind Games, Minor suicidal ideation, Peter Hale/Chris Argent is slow build (VERY SLOW), Peter/Deucalion/Chris is endgame, Rare Pairings, Scarification, Scent Marking, Teen Wolf, The Alpha Pack, Violence, Werewolf Mates, breath play, elements of slave/master, mention of consensual somnophilia, power differential, werewolf power structures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 126,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corullance/pseuds/corullance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU starting with the mall fight (in which Derek “dies”). This time Peter comes along and Deucalion reveals that they have something of a history together. Instead of continuing on to have pack v. pack brawl, Deucalion takes Peter hostage for his knowledge of the occult (a useful expertise when fighting a darach) in exchange for leaving the rest of the Beacon Hills Pack alone. (Now with its own (nsfw) tumblr: http://sacrificetocheckmate.tumblr.com/ )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Peter has Been Keeping Secrets (as usual)

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this story ignore basically all of the canon introduced with season 3 (unless mentioned in this fic). Especially ignore Visionary. For my purposes werewolves age normally until 30-40 ish when their aging slows down so they have a really long early-middle-age period.  
> Inspired by this gifset: http://analphahale.tumblr.com/post/51084612928/teen-wolf-au-filed-under-i-don-t-know-what-i-m

“Hello, handsome.” Deucalion smirks as he descends the defunct escalator. “Why so stoic?” he continues heading straight for Peter ignoring Derek and the pups until he stands directly in front of Peter. He pats Peter’s cheek condescendingly, “A pretty face like yours shouldn’t wear such a frown.”

Peter shrugs away from him appearing nonchalant, “Hello, Deuce. It’s been a long time. And my, how things have changed.” He says cuttingly. Playing with fire again. “Demon wolf now, I hear. Congratulations. It’s very catchy. I especially liked the touch with the lightning; did you have to wait for a storm or is cheap melodrama one of your new demon powers?”

Deucalion smirks and quirks his head, but before he can reply Derek interrupts with a growled, “You know him?”

Deucalion tsks and Peter rolls his eyes, “You haven’t told them?” Deucalion asks, feigning surprise.

“If you’ll recall, there’s nothing to tell, Deucalion.” Peter says through grit teeth.

“Oh,” Deucalion says with mocking surprise, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all those hunts we ran together.” he says as he circles Peter slowly, “all those nights out under the stars. All. Those. Moons.” he says, dragging his long white cane in a small circle around Peter’s feet.

“I remember” Peter says, “more than just the two of us.”

Deucalion’s smirk melts away as he completes the circle.

Peter ignores the warning and adds, “Oh and your eyes still worked then. The years haven’t been ki-” Deucalion slaps him and the blow takes him to his knees. His ears ring and his face is hot and stinging. Derek growls but doesn’t move to defend him. The packs posture and shift their stances as lines are drawn. He is on the wrong side: in enemy territory. He meets Derek’s eyes for a scant second before Deucalion’s torso fills his vision. He is in enemy territory and no one is coming for him.

Deucalion’s clawed hand fists in his hair and pulls back, exposing his throat to a room full of werewolves. Peter struggles but Deucalion shakes him and then there are claws at the back of his neck in a particular vertical pattern and he knows what that means and freezes even as Deucalion quietly tells him to hold still if he wants to avoid another coma, but there’s no time to move or struggle or even brace himself before Deucalion is in his head and everything takes on a trance-like quality, hazy and distant.

He comes out of it face down, lying on his belly. There are voices, but it takes a moment to make sense of the words.

“Why should we let you have him?” Derek asks and Peter must be coming to slower than he thought because it takes another moment to realize that Derek is talking about him, about letting Deuce have him.

Deucalion laughs at Derek, but it sounds like scoffing, “You hate him.” he says with his silky, deep voice and Peter knows he’s in trouble because he knows just how persuasive Deuce can be (and also how easily swayed and manipulated Derek can be. Gullible.) “He killed your sister. He’s weak. He’s a liability to you.” Deucalion continues and he makes it all seem so natural, so casual.

Peter rolls onto his side. He needs to start making a case for himself because fuck him if everything Deucalion has said isn’t true and he isn’t even trying yet.

“He doesn’t care about your pack.” Deuce continues, “After all, you can always make more werewolves,” he says, throwing Peter’s words back in his face. Words he only knows because he stole them right out of Peter’s own head.

“Derek...” Peter chokes out as he pushes himself to his knees, but Deucalion interrupts him with a hand fisted in his hair again.

“Come on, Derek. You can let us take your murderous uncle, who’s almost certainly plotting against you, off your hands or” and Deucalion’s other hand wraps around his neck, “I can kill him now and we can all have a skirmish and your pack will sustain heavy casualties and you still won’t have dear Uncle Peter to help you in the future.”

Derek growls loudly and Peter tenses. Derek had come here intending to fight. He wasn’t thinking about casualties he just wanted blood. He probably wouldn’t have killed Peter with his own hands without provocation, but for a moment Peter thinks Derek will do it, will let Deucalion rip his head off just to start an unwinnable war.

But he doesn’t and Peter’s heart is beating very fast but he’s thinking faster. A plan is coming together, pieces are beginning to fit. There’s a history to this dance that Derek doesn’t know but there’s a newness and a desperation too. There are questions buzzing through his mind, so many questions, missing puzzle pieces, but he can solve this if he just gets the answers. His eyes flick up to Deuce’s face. The answers are in the lion’s den. So that’s where he’ll go. Deucalion wants him for a reason, that’s for damn sure, and it has nothing to do with their personal history. He’s going to find out why. And more hopefully.

He gives Derek what he hopes is a significant look. Derek seems to interpret it as desperation and loyalty and growls loudly. Peter sighs and restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He really didn’t want to do this, but Derek is too simply loyal, too sentimental, too out of sync with Peter to realize Peter’s intentions from a pointed look alone.

“If you’re trying to save my life, Derek, I’ll probably be safer in the alpha pack than with you and your gang of high schoolers.” he drawls, trying to look disdainful while on his knees.

Derek looks utterly stricken for a very brief second before his brows return to their usual furrowed position. Peter does not allow himself to flinch at the hurt expression. But he gets exactly the response he wants.

“What do we get out of this?” Derek asks, folding his arms across his chest like an arrogant businessman. He comes across as a petulant child. Peter does allow himself a flinch at the terrible negotiation opener.

Deucalion gives raises a single eyebrow and smirks. One finger strokes Peter’s neck absently and he says, “Well, I’ll let you all walk away from this derelict structure with not even a scratch. That must be worth something, considering you came to challenge us.”

Derek growls and digs himself deeper, “You killed one of my betas!”

Peter interrupts the tete a tete with a snort. “Negotiation really isn’t your strong suit, Derek. Allow me.” Peter says. “Our offer is complete amnesty for the pack, including McCall, for their families, for their friends and minimal collateral damage for the bystanders.”

Deucalion nearly purrs, but his smirk clearly broadcasts the pleasure he’s experiencing from the situation.

“And my terms are you, fully and completely. You will join my pack and you will submit to me as my beta.”

Derek opens his mouth to...Peter doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, “Done.” He says, with finality and Deucalion hauls him to his feet, releasing the hold on his hair, but keeping a hand on his nape. Peter shivers under his touch.

There is a stand off for a few brief moments. Derek hadn’t quite agreed and he was the alpha. He could still start something but with the safety of his pack now guaranteed he couldn’t afford to let this bargain go. Even if it involved selling a blood relative to their enemies.

Derek looks wrecked, shocked and conflicted. He didn’t like Peter. Hadn’t trusted him. Hadn’t cared to fight for him. But now, now that he knew Peter was on his side, was willing to make the sacrifice for the pack, for Derek’s pack and now that he was in a position that he couldn’t afford to defend him...it was one more failure on his part to save someone, anyone. Peter being family only made it worse. And of course he realized now that Peter had played him. That his words only moments before were to make him angry, to force him into this choice. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment.

“Go home, Derek.” he says and looks away. Deucalion tugs him around by the neck and they walk away. Deuce runs his hand along Peter’s shoulder and down his arm and finally settles on a grip high on Peter’s forearm. Absurdly the position reminds Peter of a prince escorting a princess, but the sudden image doesn’t make him feel like laughing. Instead he feels a seeping sickness deep in his stomach that he didn’t expect as he walks slowly further away from his pack.  
It feels like homesickness.


	2. In Which Peter and Deucalion Begin Cohabitating and Peter Reminisces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget that werewolf age is basically human age. It becomes relevant in this chapter as Peter describes how he met Deucalion.

Ennis drives them to Deucalion’s apartment building. Deucalion takes the passenger side so Peter ends up in the back. Kali and the wonder twins wander off somewhere else.

Peter decides now is a good time to start gathering information on the alphas. “So, Ennis, right?” the alpha glances back at him in the rearview mirror. Deucalion is practicing careful disinterest. “What do you do when you’re not a chauffeur?”

Ennis focuses his eyes on the road and ignores him but Peter notices his hands clenching on the wheel and smirks.

“Careful, Peter.” Deucalion scolds mildly, “you’re not part of the pack yet.”

“How does that work? The all-alpha thing? Do you even have a pack bond or is it just a convenient moniker?” Peter asks. If there is a pack bond that could be extremely problematic for him. Playing beta to five alphas would make his own agenda very difficult to follow, not to mention it would be incredibly uncomfortable to be pulled towards obedience to five different individuals. Then again, if the alpha’s balanced hierarchy was threatened by his presence...well their weakness would be an advantage to his pack. To Derek’s pack, he corrects himself. He would just have to try to stay out of the middle of things.

“Not a true pack bond, but similar.” Deucalion says. “You will be my beta alone. I’d be surprised if you’re aware of the other bonds at all.”

Peter frowns. That’s probably good news. He can still play the alphas against one another. When they fight they just won’t be fighting over him. That will be a benefit. He’ll find something else to steer them into conflict. On the other hand, he’ll be Deucalion’s beta, his only beta, his only packmate.

Peter shivers. The scrutiny will make things difficult. Well, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

Deucalion’s penthouse is “Directly above the Argents? Really?” Peter says as the ascend in the elevator, “Not very subtle.”

“I had doubts as to whether subtlety would work or even be noticed.” Deucalion replies mildly. Peter frowns. Deucalion’s calm exterior is frustratingly unnerving now, given what Peter knows was the fate of his pack.

Eventually he just snorts, “Have you run into Christopher in the elevator yet?” he asks flippantly.

“He takes the stairs.” Deucalion smirks.

And Peter can’t help himself; he’s startled into laughter.

“23rd floor and of course Chris Argent takes the stairs.” he says, grinning still. It must be the residual adrenaline, because it isn’t that funny, but even Deucalion smiles.

The elevator doors slide open to a short hallway, lush patterned carpet leading to a dark wood panel door. It’s lovely craftsmanship but it makes Peter’s heart stutter. In reality it’s far too late to turn back and has been since Deucalion got his claws into Peter. But this door is the door through which Peter will enter one man and exit another.

This door is the door to his cage.

He doesn’t bother trying to control his heartbeat. He’s sure Deucalion will savor his nervousness, will relish in his discomfort. Let him enjoy it. Let him believe that Peter does not have the control to school his reactions. This concession won’t change the outcome of this skirmish, therefore it’s a concession he can’t afford not to make.

It will also tell him whether to play complete submissive or grudging ally.

For now, he’ll allow Deucalion to savor his own power.

Deucalion steps around Peter and pulls out a key, unlocking the door by feel. Peter squints in suspicion. There’s no way Deucalion is leading a pack of powerful, independent alphas missing the most relied upon of the five senses. Discovering his limitations will be yet another advantage to being in such close proximity.

At the sound of the tumblers shifting and the lock unlatching Peter’s chest clenches. Deucalion steps over the threshold and holds the door open. Peter shakes his fear off and swaggers confidently inside brushing, just barely, against Deucalion’s chest. A sign of aggression, a test.

Of course Deucalion retaliates by pressing a proprietary hand against his lower back, urging him further into the room. Peter counters by continuing through the entryway, outrunning Deucalion’s reach and his touch, although the memory of his hand burns.

The hallway leads to a spacious living room and dining room, separated only by a piano and three steps down; the living room is a bit lower than the dining area.

He shrugs out of his jacket and throws it casually over the piano with false bravado as if he’s making himself comfortable, as if he’s making himself feel at home.

“Nice place.” he says, throwing himself down onto a large couch, which is an incredibly comfortable cream suede affair. It’s certainly better than the burnt out remnants of the old family home. It’s more opulent than Peter’s apartment too, but he wouldn’t say nicer. It’s also a good thing he’s paid rent in advance for the next three months. He doubts he’ll have the time now and this mess will certainly be over three months from now one way or another. Hell, he’ll be surprised if it lasts one.

But Deucalion is in the room, carefully stalking his prey, blocking the exits, the escapes, except the one that leads deeper into his den. It doesn’t matter though. Peter isn’t going to retreat from here. In fact, he’s going to make a stand. He puts his feet up on the glass coffee table.

“So it’s been, what, at least ten years since you’ve had a beta and, correct me if I’m wrong, roughly the same amount of time since you slaughtered them all. What are the odds that you can keep yourself from ripping me apart just by habit?”

Deucalion gives him that furiously calm smile and simply says, “I think I’ll be able to control myself.”

The barb was meant as an insult, a reference to his loss of control. It had obviously been ineffective.

Deucalion has also shucked his jacket, though it is nowhere to be found, probably put away somewhere in the hall.

“You may want to take a shower, though.” Deucalion adds in that unconcerned way of his.

Peter hums, slightly indignant, “I wouldn’t have thought I smell enough like Derek’s pack to even notice.” Derek’s pack, he’s careful to say. Derek’s.

“Well,” Deucalion says stepping close to Peter, “Better safe than sorry and ripped apart by habit.”

The patronizing bastard. But, oh, does Peter detect a hint of remorse or regret? In any case, his barb had not gone so unfelt as he had thought.

“Of course,” Peter smirks , though his confident expression falters when, in order to stand, he has to get right in Deuce’s space. He probably wouldn’t have been able to control his heartrate if he wanted to.

“The shower is through the master bedroom.” Deucalion breathes softly into his ear.

Peter successfully suppresses a shiver, to his surprise. He sniffs, “Well, if I’d known I’d be settling right in I would have packed a bag.” he says to cover his retreat to the bathroom.

Deucalion may be able to take him apart like tissue paper, but Peter will have the last word.

The shower is a godsend, for all that it puts him at a strategic disadvantage. The only ways out are through the master bedroom or off the 24th floor balcony. In addition he was now naked, which was unlikely to be an advantage.

But the shower is affording him time to gather his thoughts and make some plans, some strategic decisions.

Mostly it depends on how Deucalion reacts to having a beta again after so long. Then, of course, there’s the history between them, back when Peter was one step shy of omega, running away from and towards himself at the same time. He had just gotten out of high school, 18 years old, living in a small town with a very big secret and only young children and adults in his family to confide in; he was going out of his head, a misfit, restless and young and wild and dangerous. Nagging warnings, censure from the adults, the pressure of protecting the young ones and he couldn’t take it anymore. There were too many anchors.

He was young and strong, wild with youth. He wanted to fuck and fight and be free. But he would never put his family in danger just because he was restless.

So he took off a year out of high school, which he had spent working as a cook at the local diner. Did a little bussing and some table waiting too and earned good money doing it.

That June he bought a cheap shitty car and drove out of town. His bags had been packed since April and he’d copied down all the contact info for all the supernaturals that Talia, as Hale alpha, was acquainted with.

He’d left a note, just that he was taking a trip to clear his head and would be away for a while, he didn’t know how long, but not to worry; he would come back. He even promised to call once a month.

It turned out to be exactly what he needed. The newfound freedom satisfied his wanderlust and the rest was just life: Learning how to fend for himself, having fun without feeling guilty or irresponsible, experiencing kindness at its most pure, and cruelty at its most selfish; a crash course in life’s lessons. They were hard lessons, sometimes and there were significant lows along with the highs, but that was to be expected and he learned from it all, soaking up the knowledge and the experience, so hungry to finally live.

When he came home to Beacon Hills five years later it was like slipping your feet into a pair of well worn slippers or sliding your hand into a glove that really fits.

And life was good until the fire, of course, but it was during those five years adrift with nothing holding him down and no one to answer to that he first met Deucalion. It was three and a half years in and he was ever so slowly making his way back home, not really going there, but no longer running away.

Deucalion’s pack was in Riverside County, several hours south of Beacon Hills. He stayed with them for a year and a month, longer than he had stayed with any other pack or group. It had taken three months for Deucalion, the alpha of the pack even at that time, and Peter to finally stop beating around the bush and fuck. It had always been a casual thing at the time. Peter had been feeling the anchor pull back towards Beacon Hills and his own pack and Deucalion had duties to his own pack. And after all, Riverside wasn’t that far from Beacon Hills.

Deucalion hadn’t been his first, but he had been his first long term thing. There had been affection but no responsibility or assumptions. They were both young, not really concerned with settling down and Peter was still high with his own freedom, finally feeling comfortable in his own skin. He wasn’t going to give up his newfound autonomy just yet. They had parted amicably and with the assumption that, if the chance arose, they might revisit a relationship at a later time.

He had been thinking of going to visit, getting a bit restless, but also finally able to appreciate the benefits of having roots but then the fire happened and Deucalion had been relegated to history.

In some ways this would be easier to manipulate and maneuver Deucalion if they hadn’t shared a brief history. Games like these are all willpower and self knowledge and viciously controlled self delusion. He’ll have the one persona for subterfuge and the other for himself and never the twain shall meet. The day they do is the day he loses control and without control Peter Hale is nothing. The fact that he really does (or did) like Deucalion, respects him even, will make playing easier, but winning...it may make winning very difficult indeed.

So to separate the two personas in this game he’ll have to try disdain and disgust and keep respect and desire to himself. And if Deucalion manages to drag respect and desire to the surface (a very real danger)...well, he’ll be in trouble to say the least, but he supposes he’ll just have to change his mind about the man.

He turns the shower off and steps out onto the fluffy rug, dripping everywhere on purpose. He even goes so far as to shake as much water off as he can, exactly like a dog would, because he might not be an alpha but he can still be an asshole and he’ll be damned if Deucalion gets his security deposit back. It’s the least he can do.

The bathroom is as opulent as the rest of the apartment; spacious and tiled with two sinks and a rather unnecessarily large bathtub. There are no less than five fluffy white towels but after a moment of perusal he chooses the one that Deucalion has used. If it’s really about scent-marking then perhaps Deucalion will go a bit easier on him later. If it was for some other reason he’ll probably (hopefully) just be annoyed that Peter took his towel.

He dries his hair inhaling as the towel flops around his head. Deuce’s is a clean masculine scent, dry like the desert hot like the sun, soothing and exhilarating at the same time, like howling with your pack on the full moon.

It’s exactly the way Peter remembers it.

And suddenly he realizes that he has the towel pressed to his face and he’s just breathing it in. He frowns into the towel. He feels calm, grounded. He feels good.

And he realizes that this whole thing was a terrible idea. His hands grip the towel tightly and he savagely finishes drying himself off then he schools himself.

He reminds himself who he wants to be when he steps out of the bathroom. He reminds himself that Deucalion is abhorrent to him, that the desire he feels for him has only to do with the seductive effect that power has on Peter and that this too is distasteful to him.

With his armor on the inside tempered and wrought he goes to battle wearing only a towel and meaning to win.


	3. In Which Peter Switches Allegiance I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a random note...I wikipedia'd the name for the white stick that blind people use to navigate, cause I didn't want to just call it "the white stick that blind people use" and there are a few different kinds but from what I could tell the one Deucalion uses is just called a long stick. It's mentioned in this chapter, so if you see the words "long stick" it's not like a wooden staff or a small branch, it's one of those :P

Deucalion is seated in an armchair in the living room, but with a clear view through to the master bedroom. He has headphones in, the large ear-covering ones, though Peter doubts they’re noise cancelling.

He looks over when Peter emerges and waits for the beta to approach. Peter does since he just wants to get the inevitable over with and there’s no reason to play mind games about who’s going to cave first when it gives him no real benefit and only keeps him in painful suspense.

He enters the living room brazenly dripping on the hardwood not covered by soft plush rugs and says, “Well, shall we?”

Deucalion removes his headphones and, with that constant bemused tone, replies, “Yes, I suppose we shall.”

He rises and walks past Peter into the bedroom. Peter frowns but is not surprised. He follows.

Deucalion rests his long stick against the bedside table at the head of the expansive white bed. Then he begins to remove his shoes and socks. Peter huffs a sigh of impatience and wishes there was something slightly more interesting to do than awkwardly stand around in a towel because the suspense is really getting to him. So he instead exudes disdain and impatience.

“So Peter,” Deucalion says breaking the silence, “It’s been almost ten years since I last saw you. How have you been?”

Peter snorts, “About as well as you’ve been as far as I can tell, except I healed.”

Deucalion smirks and removes his sunglasses, placing them gently on the bedside table. “Oh,” he says, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Peter cannot think of an appropriate response that won’t make him sound like a petulant middle schooler so he just sniffs, looks away and doesn’t deign to respond.

But then Deucalion is right in front of him, his sheer presence demanding Peter’s full attention. They are almost chest to chest, just barely not touching. Peter swallows and tries not to think about...anything. He definitely tries not to think about how he’s only wearing a fluffy white towel around his hips and he can feel the heat of Deucalion’s body or how powerful Deucalion is, or how he could snap Peter’s neck in half a second and Peter would be unable to stop him, or how good he felt those years ago back in Riverside.

No, those were the things Peter was not going to think about. Instead he wets his lips with a nervous swipe of the tongue and says, “So, how does this work?”

Deucalion gives his infuriating enigmatic smile and says, “Just…” and a large warm hand rises to grasp his bicep lightly, “follow your instincts.”

Peter’s heart is beating the rapid tattoo of frightened prey. He can hear his own blood rushing through his veins as Deucalion’s hand slides hot and dry up his shoulder to rest at the side of his neck, curling around the vulnerable contours of windpipe,tendons and arteries. No doubt Deucalion could feel his pulse hammering, throbbing through his neck.

Deucalion’s thumb rests right under the divot of his chin and tilts his head back slowly exposing even more of his neck to the alpha’s scrutiny.

“See? You’re doing fine.” Deucalion says, his smirking voice cutting through the silence, jarring Peter out of the moment. “In fact,” Deucalion continues as he steps closer, pressing them together and pressing his face close in to the crook of Peter’s neck, “You’re a natural at submitting.”

And before Peter can growl an angry refutation Deucalion’s mouth is open against his neck, blunt human teeth forming into fangs against the delicate skin of his throat and he bites down hard.

Peter is vaguely aware of his whole body seizing taut as a bowstring before he loses all sense of the physical. For an immeasurable moment he feels the pack bond he shares with Derek and his pups viciously severed and before the disorienting burning agony of abandonment has even fully registered and been processed the horrible void that had just been so abruptly vacated was just as suddenly filled to brimming with Deucalion and alpha and power so thick that he could taste it in his mouth and it was still pouring into him filling every crevice of his mind and rising up to choke him, filling his lungs and his throat and mouth with that thick, heavy power. It feels like drowning in lightning, like being smothered by the sun, like the euphoria of a brain on its last breath. It feels like subjugation.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Peter wakes up softly swathed in white sheets and white light. He feels...raw. It takes him a disorienting moment to remember where he is and why. He follows his nose and finds Deucalion sitting in one of the upholstered chairs across from the bed. He’s wearing pajama bottoms (dark blue cotton) and nothing else. Deucalion clearly hears his head turn and could probably hear him waking by the sound of his breath.

Peter merely gazes at Deucalion, still a bit sleep-fogged and idly wonders if it’s creepier to listen to sleep someone sleep or to watch them sleep. Deucalion tilts his head a little and merely says, “You passed out.”

Obviously, Peter thinks and rolls his eyes, letting that action speak for him. He tries to decide whether to turn over and go back to sleep or get up and go to the guest bedroom or just familiarize himself with the apartment. He’s still feeling a bit disoriented and exposed. Retreat would probably be the best option.

But then Deucalion stands purposefully and he clearly has something in mind because he’s striding over to the bed and Peter shifts higher on the bed and that’s when he realizes the towel is gone and he is completely naked under the crisp white sheet.

“Calm down, Peter.” Deucalion says as he slides into the bed under the sheets, “Scent-marking, remember?”

“Well forgive me if none of my previous alphas were so proactive about it.” Peter can’t help but give a sarcastic response.

“Go to sleep, Peter.” and strong arms wrap around his waist and shoulders and Deucalion’s scent fills his nose. He feels Deuce nuzzle the back of his neck and can’t help but relax into his alpha’s embrace. He tells himself that it’s just instinct.

He also feels Deucalion’s subsequent smirk against his nape. Obviously Deucalion was enjoying having a beta again.

Peter had the suspicion that Deucalion would not fall asleep until he did but the took the time to regroup anyway.

He had successfully planted himself behind enemy lines and he had a plan forming. Tomorrow the real work would begin starting with knowledge gathering and research (what, specifically, did Deucalion have in mind for him?) and confirming his suspicions as to the origin of the “demon wolf”.

Next on his agenda was opening lines of communication with Derek and the pack in whatever way possible. And during all this time, of course, weakening the infrastructure of the alpha pack from the inside out.

It was likely that Deucalion would begin setting down rules tomorrow but with a scrap of luck he’d be able to wiggle his way through some loopholes.  
Meanwhile sleeping in a lavish apartment on a comfortable bed in the arms a gorgeous and powerful man...well, there were worse ways to spend a night and that was just a simple fact.


	4. In Which Deucalion Relates the Rules

It was late morning by the light that filled the room; Deucalion’s penthouse master bedroom that was. And to Peter’s surprise Deucalion is still abed, slumbering peacefully next to Peter...or at least he seems to be. Peter begins to shift, not too subtly because he doesn't want Deucalion to think he's sneaking. Peter knows sneaking wouldn't work. It would just make him look stupid.

And, just as Peter predicted, as he began to shift and moved to get out of the bed Deucalion's arm snuck around his torso and pulled him back until he was flush against Deucalion's chest.

"Going somewhere, Peter?" Deucalion asks against his nape.

"Nowhere in particular." Peter replies. It's likely that now that they're both awake they'll be getting up anyway, which is all Peter wanted in the first place. "Breakfast, maybe." he muses, a little hungry.

Deucalion hums and doesn't respond right away and Peter is suddenly thrown into nostalgic memories of their past when they would wake up together just like this. Deucalion was always foggy in the morning: mellow, as usual, but less guarded, less deliberately mild. It had been one of Peter's favorite parts of the day.

He sighs and decides to ruin the moment in emotional self-defense. He cannot allow himself to become attached. "Let me go, Deucalion. I need to piss." he says vulgarly. Neither of them were ever much for cussing.

Deucalion growls in sleepy annoyance then suddenly rolls them Deucalion is on top of him and his fangs are at Peter's neck, not biting yet, but pressure. Peter holds very, very still.

"I can't hold it forever you know." he says facetiously after a moment. Deucalion huffs and rolls off him, practically pushing him out of the bed in the same movement.

Peter glares, but Deucalion doesn't see. He goes to the bathroom, even though he didn't really need to, and then walks confidently through the bedroom, carefully ignoring Deucalion. He goes to the kitchen and begins exploring.

It's what he expected. Shiny, new appointments and luxurious appliances. Maybe he'll make a pie or some lemon poppy seed bread. It's been a while since he's been in a nice kitchen. He just couldn't quite justify a fully stocked kitchen when he was cooking for only himself and in his not-so-large apartment. He puts the kettle on with enough water to make tea for both of them. It was Deucalion’s morning drink and Peter had learned to like it well enough. He shrugs it off and begins to look for food. Raisin Bran, it turns out, is what Deucalion eats as a cereal choice. Peter selects a bowl and a banana and begins to eat.

Deucalion emerges halfway through the cereal bowl. He follows Peter's lead, taking note of the kettle on the stove with approval. Peter smirks a little. His body language is so much easier to read in the morning. That would be useful to keep in mind.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" Peter asks as Deucalion pours himself and Peter a mug of tea and it's still odd to be the voluntary hostage of a man who knows how he takes his tea. "Stalking little girls in red cloaks on their way to visit elderly relatives? Or just the usual maiming and killing?"

Deucalion's mask is in place after the first sip of tea. "Just the usual today. I hope that doesn't disappoint you."

"No," Peter says into his tea, "I find myself in the mood for a bit of maiming."

Deucalion smirks, "We'll be meeting with the others in an hour or so. In the meantime you and I have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

"Do we?" Peter asks, rinsing his bowl and putting it in the dishwasher. A messy kitchen was a sign of...well, nothing, Peter just didn't like them.

"Don't play innocent with me, Peter. I know better." Deucalion says. "We're going to be discussing the particulars of this arrangement and your part in it. Then we will get down to business when we meet up with the others."

"So you’re going to give me the rulebook, hmm?"

"The rulebook, your job description and orientation, if you want to use metaphors." Deucalion replies.

Peter rolls his eyes. "And when will this be happening?"

"When I finish my tea." Deucalion says, suddenly seeming very much the grumpy alpha who doesn't enjoy mornings very much.

Peter leans back against a counter, "I'm waiting."

"Yes." Deucalion says, taking a careful sip, "Good boy."

Peter's eyes flash blue for a moment before he regains control of his temper and waits for Deucalion to finish his tea while trying to shake off his seething rage. He sits and waits at a bar stool at the kitchen’s island in stony silence wishing he had poisoned Deucalion’s tea.

Eventually Deucalion finishes the tea rinses it in the sink and places it in the dishwasher. Very slowly.

“You’re an asshole.” Peter huffs under his breath.

“But I’m the asshole in charge.” Deucalion says with smirk, “Speaking of which, let’s get to the rules.”

“Lay them on me.” Peter says with a shit eating grin. He’s so looking forward to finding the loopholes and exploiting them at every opportunity.

“The first rule is that you are to obey me, obviously. Normally it goes without say, since I’m your alpha, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Deucalion begins.

Peter continues to grin, “Obviously I have to obey you. Otherwise what would be the point.”

Deucalion sighs and Peter’s grin widens. “I can see you’re going to make things difficult for me.”

“Not difficult.” Peter protests with faux-innocence. “Interesting!”

Deucalion gives him an incredulous look.

“Let me put it this way. I will be as obedient to you as an alpha of your caliber deserves.” Peter says. It doesn’t seem to reassure Deucalion, but Deucalion has plenty of sycophants. He already knows Peter’s character and still chose to take him as a beta. He must have been expecting some games. And on some level, he very likely enjoys them or he would have already shut Peter down with an overwhelming display of force.

At least, that’s the gamble Peter’s taking.

To Peter’s chagrin Deucalion returns his sarcastic remark with a mischievous grin of his own. “Very well, Peter. We can play that game if you like.”

Oh. He might be in a spot of trouble.

Deucalion continues, “I’ll give you a pass for this morning, but in future you will sit only at my feet.”

Peter is stunned for a moment. Deucalion’s grin twitches wider at his expression and he continues, “You will not feed yourself. You may ask me for food and, if I believe you deserve it, I will provide it.”

Peter swallows hard. This is… He tries to comfort himself. This is hardly enforceable. Deucalion won’t be with him at every moment of every day, surely.

“When we are in public you will speak only when spoken to. If you have something to say you may ask me for permission to speak. You will be here at the apartment by 10:00 pm unless you are with me and you will always answer your phone promptly when I call you.”

Peter swallows the lump of panic at the restrictions in his throat. He can get around most of them, but this is getting a little ridiculous, “Well, I’m certainly glad I’m being afforded the trust of at least a teenager. Should I hold your hand when cross the street?”

Deucalion smirks, “You should count yourself lucky that I don’t put a leash and collar on you.”

Peter freezes and tries to quickly dispel the sudden mental image that presents itself, but doesn’t manage to get the idea out of his head before Deucalion’s smirk widens at his reaction.

The bastard.

“I won’t forbid you from visiting your old pack unless it interferes with my plans because I believe that you know what I will do to them if they get in my way.” Deucalion continues, “And, since I know how fond you are of word games and loopholes, I will also tell you that any breach in the spirit of these rules will result in punishment regardless of the wording I used.”

Peter gives a sour smile and shrugs. He knows he’s going to get punished for some things. The loopholes just make it easier for him to disobey his alpha, not that that’s been much of a problem for him before. The subtle psychological discomfort of disobeying an alpha and working against whatever agenda they have as the alpha has defined it has never been much of a deterrent for him.

“Any questions?” Deucalion asks with a raised brow.

“No. I think you were pretty clear.” Peter says. As if he was going to ask for clarification of a rule. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission had been Peter’s motto since before he could remember.

“Good.” Deucalion says and stands. “Because now that I’m done with my tea we’re going to meet the others.”

Peter stands and follows Deucalion to the hallway. “And where will we be meeting them? In an abandoned tunnel? Deep in the forest?”

“Of course not.” Deucalion says. “Kali, Ennis and the twins are renting a house.”

Peter looks at him incredulously. Deucalion shrugs.

“To add to the illusion that Ethan and Aiden are schoolboys...of a sort.”

Peter snorts as they exit the apartment. “Right. The sort that look old enough to be out of college, you mean.”

Deucalion merely smiles and locks the door behind them. “Don’t forget the rules, Peter. Kali is not as generous as I am when it comes to the topic of the proper way to treat a beta.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be my knight in shining armor if I get in too deep.” Peter says snidely as they wait for the elevator.

Deucalion just smiles mildly, as usual, and doesn’t answer. Peter takes a breath and huffs a frustrated sigh. He hopes Deucalion will come to his rescue if he insults one of the other alphas a bit too far. He’ll have to do some poking if he wants to disrupt the pack dynamics in any case. Surely Deucalion will step in if things get out of hand. He needs Peter functional. Deucalion will protect him. He nods to himself. Yes, he will. After all, alphas have an instinct to protect their betas as well. Deucalion won’t let the other alphas get too rough with him.

He takes a sideways glance at Deucalion who is still smiling slightly, the picture of bemused innocence.  
Peter frowns and thinks again that this was a terrible idea. He’ll just have to make it work though. There’s no way he’ll admit to having a terrible plan.


	5. In Which Peter's and Deucalion's Agendas Align Perfectly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I’m assuming that no one has told Peter (or Derek) about the Darach yet since Stiles has only just found out about it in the previous episode and it doesn’t mean much to them yet and information sharing between characters on the show seems sketchy at best. No one tells Peter anything. :P

Ennis drives them to the house and Peter gives him a smirk, glancing from him to the driver’s seat. Ennis the chauffeur doesn’t have much of a ring to it, but it makes Ennis growl. Deucalion remains silent.

The drive is quiet, but short. Beacon Hills proper is fairly small surrounded with large swathes of forest and abandoned warehouses and malls.

It’s a slightly less suburban house than Peter would have expected for the area. It has a large grassy backyard with several trees on the periphery. The crisp golden lawn is knee-high and, even while the alphas inhabit it, the plot has an overgrown, abandoned feel to it. At the same time it looks, not welcoming, but appealing in a wild, rugged, homely sort of way, like a rabbit warren.

They enter the house, average and typical on the inside, and continue through to the living room. Kali is lounging on a loveseat flexing her calves. The twins are on the couch. Ennis takes one of the upholstered chairs and Deucalion takes the last one.

Peter hesitates for a moment. He’s not about to ask Kali to budge up and sit next to her. Nor does he particularly feel like squeezing in between to the twins especially when Deucalion will only reprimand him and force him to move. So after a moment of hesitation he sinks to the floor at Deucalion’s feet and plants himself brazenly right in between Deucalion’s legs instead of to one side or the other, actually having to shoulder his legs apart slightly in order to fit. This will be his first strategy: to antagonize the other alphas by playing the “I am Deucalion’s beta not yours I would never submit to an alpha that submitted to another alpha” game.

Showing Deucalion respect among his peers will hopefully make them jealous, but secondly, might afford him some leeway in private, which in turn will make their relationship seem more intimate. That will certainly help build a rift between the alpha pack and their leader and it should endear him to Deucalion even further.

“Well.” Deucalion says, with mild surprise at the entrance Peter has chosen to make. “Shall we begin?”

It’s rhetorical, of course, but Deucalion continues, “I assume no one has discovered the identity of the darach yet.”

Peter’s ears perk up at the word darach and this entire farce would be almost completely justified by learning just that one piece of information. Everything begins to make sense now. The sacrifices, the choice of sacrifices, their manner. The one thing that doesn’t fit is the target. Why would a darach be after a werewolf? Peter grins inwardly. It’s one more piece of the puzzle that fits perfectly into Peter’s theory. The alphas are all shaking their heads, of course. Any darach would be very difficult to find without the appropriate tools let alone a darach with the power to challenge an alpha pack.

“Very well, I suppose that’s to be expected, which is why, as you know,” Deucalion continues and lays a hand on Peter’s head, “I’ve chosen to bring in a consultant, so to speak.”

Peter tenses under Deucalion’s hand and tries to suppress a shiver. It wouldn’t do to show weakness here under the scrutiny of the alpha’s.

“So tell me Peter, how would one go about finding the identity of a darach?”

Peter is about to burst into laughter because this is going to be so easy. Somehow the solution to the problem the alpha’s are having is in exact alignment with the solution to his problem with the alpha’s. Deucalion is handing him the solution to both on a silver platter.

“The easiest way is to use a hagstone. If it’s a darach as powerful as I’m assuming we’ll want one made out of dichroic glass.” 'We', he says, purposefully. It’s subtle, but no one calls him on it. Probably because he’s sitting between Deucalion’s legs and if he turned around he’d be five inches away from his crotch.

“For the benefit of the younger members, explain what a hagstone is.” Deucalion requests.

“A hagstone is any stone or crystal in which a hole has been worn by water and subsequently consecrated in snake venom, although there is some argument about whether the venom is necessary.” The older legends relate that hagstones were actually stones formed out of snakes or crystalised venom somehow, but the ones that were made out of stone seemed to work just as well and were probably a good bit easier to make.

“When someone with a spark looks through the hole he or she will see things hidden from normal sight, including true forms, beings from other planes, otherworldly portals, things of that nature, depending on their abilities.” And Peter’s abilities should be sufficient for to suss out a darach who’s probably not expecting to be spied on with a hagstone, but more importantly he’ll easily be able to confirm (or debunk) his suspicion about Deucalion and the demon wolf.

“The roots of the myth are celtic in nature, I believe. Some of the oldest known hagstones are hypothesised to be older than stonehenge. They’re quite interesting.” So he’s a bit of a lore geek. It’s not something he’s ever regretted, since his occult knowledge given him a vast upper hand in many situations and has given him a bargaining chip for situations such as these. Not to mention his bag of tricks has grown exponentially since he first started researching the occult.

“Yes, thank you. The definition would have sufficed.” Deucalion reprimands gently. “And where would we get one of those?” he continues, hand stroking his hair absently, like a good pet. It feels so good, incredibly good, even if it’s a bit humiliating given the context, but it’s been so long since anyone has touched him with kindness or gentleness, and he wants the other alphas to think that he’s completely under Deucalion’s spell.

He lets his eyes drift close and his head lean back into Deucalion’s touch, brazenly exposing his throat to the room. “They aren’t the easiest things to find, especially out of dichroic glass. Your best bet would be one of the old occult auctions, London, Paris, Berlin, you know.”

Peter also has a few contacts he can ask. It’s unlikely they’ll have a dichroic hagstone themselves, but they might know who would. That said, he’s not about to expose them to a rampaging alpha pack, so he’ll keep that to himself for now and pursue those avenues alone. The sooner he gets the hagstone, the better.

“Wonderful.” Deucalion says, and he seems to mean it at least a little. He’s clearly pleased to have an answer and that his investment in taking Peter has already paid off. The hair stroking practically turns into a head massage and Peter purrs purposefully under the praise. “Then we have only to arrange the purchase.”

The alphas continue to discuss which auctions to investigate, who they can contact in the other countries to pick up and deliver and how quickly they can get the hagstone. Cost is never discussed, so Peter assumes it isn’t an issue. That’s not surprising. Meanwhile he learns that Deucalion has very talented hands when it comes to head massage. Peter, no longer allowed to speak, plays the happy slave, feigning inattention and contentment while listening very closely.

The soonest of the old auctions is in Berlin and is only a week away, which is very convenient for the alphas. Ennis has contacts in Germany, it turns out, and they’ll easily be able to discover whether a hagstone is for sale this year. Kali, surprisingly, retrieves a smartphone from her pocket and hands it to Ennis so that he can email his contact.

It seems there’s something more to that relationship than just colleagues. How interesting. And where do the twins fit in? Before there is time for Peter to study the dynamics of the pack (or even figure out a sure way to distinguish the twins from each other) the meeting is abruptly over. The alphas waste no time it seems, but nobody likes meetings that go on forever.

Deucalion stops carding through his hair and Peter almost whimpers. He had really, genuinely been enjoying that. Who didn’t enjoy affectionate attention? And it had been extremely freeing to be able to show his enjoyment freely as part of his strategy to rile the other alphas by playing the doting beta.

He would have to be careful not to do the same thing at the apartment when he was alone with Deucalion. That would only cause trouble.

They follow Ennis out to the car and Peter takes the backseat as usual. Hopefully the hagstone will arrive soon. Peter would hate to start laying groundwork for a plan based on a faulty assumption. He’d rather have confirmation via hagstone and then begin to plan. Timing will be tight once the hagstone arrives however, assuming that the darach can be found within a day or two. He’ll have to make his move before then.

Hopefully he can stall a bit with the hagstone. Given the occult ignorance of the alpha pack it’s unlikely any of them have the spark and that will be a monumental advantage. He’ll have to mention to Deaton to watch his back. If the alphas get impatient they might try to rope him into using the hagstone. The same went for Stiles, although it was much less likely that the alphas would have anything to do with him.

They arrive back at the apartment around lunchtime and Peter frowns. He’s not looking forward to having to beg for food, true Deucalion had said ask, but he had all the power and Peter had none. It was begging.

But maybe his luck would change. Maybe Deucalion would forget that he made that rule and just make them both sandwiches.

And Derek might grow a sense of humor and Scott might go on a murderous rampage.

Peter sighs. How did this become his life?


	6. In Which Lunch is More Complicated than Anticipated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And uh...just a quick...I have no beta and I'm posting these pretty quick after I finish writing them, so if you see any silly mistakes please let me know. Once I've got the whole thing hammered out I'll look for any typos, but in the interest of speed that's my current plan.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone has any tag suggestions I would be happy to have those, cause I'm a bit new at the tagging so...yeah :) thanks!

They get home and Deucalion breezes into the kitchen, practically ignoring Peter’s presence. Their situation would usually be incredibly awkward, but Deucalion either treats him like a pet which, once inside the house, is free to do whatever inane things they want or like a family member who has their own place in the house and their own business to get to.

Either way, neither was really appropriate for Peter, since he didn’t really have his own things to do in Deucalion’s apartment and he wasn’t ready to completely label himself simply a pet quite yet.

So given that the most entertaining, albeit additionally the most dangerous, thing for Peter in the apartment, he follows Deucalion into the kitchen. Deucalion used to cook. In fact, they both had, back in Riverside. But things have changed since then and Peter imagines it would be difficult to cook certain things without sight.

“Do you still cook?” Peter asks Deucalion as he watches him move around the kitchen.

“Some things.” Deucalion replies.

Peter hums in response. This doesn’t surprise him, but he was hoping to be able to gather some insight into Deucalion’s actual visual abilities.

Watching Deucalion move around the kitchen, gathering ingredients and kitchen tools is nostalgic and uncomfortably domestic in an alien way. Peter feels like an intruder. He and Deucalion, when they were together, they had always cooked together. Now Peter was an unwelcome observer to the comfortable home life of a once-lover. It was probably some kind of karmic retribution Peter thought idly. He had once so enjoyed…

But it didn’t matter now. He couldn’t afford to sink into a nostalgic haze. He couldn’t afford to like anything about Deucalion or his situation as his hostage. So he must ruin the feeling. Of course.

He inserts himself in Deucalion’s cooking meditations who seems to be assembling a series of delicate sandwiches and moves to open the fridge.

Deucalion makes a tsking noise, “Remember the rules, Peter.” he says, a mild reprimand. Peter recalls immediately what Deucalion is referring to: he’s not permitted to take food unless he asks for permission from Deucalion.

He resists the urge to slam the refrigerator door shut. “Of course.” Peter replies, “I had forgotten.” Which is absolutely unacceptable. He cannot afford to slip up here. Suddenly angry with himself for the mistake, just because he got emotional for a moment over some stupid memory.

“May I feed myself, alpha?” Peter grits out. It’s not like he didn’t know that he would have to humble himself completely, that he would have to spit on his pride, what little he had left.

“No.” Deucalion intones as he continues to arrange what appears to be lettuce on a sandwich.

Peter has to stop himself mid-reach towards the refrigerator. He had said no. He said no? That wasn’t right at all.

“Sorry?” Peter says incredulously.

Deucalion has finished making what looks to be three sandwiches, de-crusted and cut them into small morsels as though they were at an English tea house. And in fact Peter was just noticing that tea was steeping in a cozied teapot.

Deucalion was bringing the plate of sandwiches to the table when he says, “You wouldn’t mind bringing the teapot and a few cups, would you?”

Peter rolls his eyes, “No, not at all.” he intones sarcastically, but he brings the teapot and two cups and follows the food to the table where Deucalion is sitting. He places his burdens on the table and looks to Deucalion.

“At my feet, Peter.” Deucalion says mildly, taking the teapot and pouring two cups.

Peter grinds his teeth and hesitates, even though he shouldn’t. Deucalion kindly ignores his struggle. They both know he’ll give in, but Peter knows that he can’t afford to...he sighs, he can’t afford to enjoy it. Not that he would...under other circumstances. Because he wouldn’t.

Deucalion’s chair is pushed slightly away from the table at an angle so that the table is at his left hand, his left elbow resting easily on it. His right side is free of the table with plenty of room beside.

Peter sighs and throws himself huffily to the ground at Deucalion’s side. How humiliating, to have to eat on the floor. He takes a breath to steady himself and peers up at Deucalion, who appears completely unconcerned. He isn’t even paying attention. Peter’s jaws clench and he tries not to grind his teeth, because if he doesn’t learn some control he’ll have ground them down to nothing by the time this is over.

Peter gives it a few moments. It’s possible Deucalion is merely testing his patience and might reward him for just sitting quietly. And what a repugnant thought that is.

“If there’s some trick you want me to perform to earn my supper it might be helpful if you told me what it was.” Peter says, “Because if I’m not getting any food out of this I actually have better things to do than just sit here.”

Deucalion smiles, “Very well, Peter.” He takes a small sandwich piece from the plate and holds it out to Peter. Peter huffs and tries not to be too glad that he’s managed to beg a piece of sandwich from his madman alpha, but as he reaches out to take the morsel Deucalion jerks it away.

“From my hand.” he says.

From his hand. As if that’s… Peter takes a moment to breathe. He remembers back in Riverside, they would actually go on picnics, like a normal couple, like a normal romance. Looking back it seemed surreal to think of. Lovers sitting on a beach by moonlight, feeding each other by hand, out of affection, licking the juice of sweet, tropical fruit from each others fingers. What happened?

But he knows what happened, or at least he knows enough. Peter frowns and sets his jaw. He doesn’t feel hungry anymore, just tired. He won’t eat from Deucalion’s hand, not in this ugly parody of what they had been. It might...bring up too many memories.

“You know,” he manages to choke out, hoarse voiced, “I don’t think I’m hungry after all.” He looks up at Deucalion with wide, sad eyes, just begging to be given some time to adjust. As long as Deucalion doesn’t force him now, and what would be the point of forcing him when what Deucalion wants is his acceptance, he’ll have time to figure something out, some defense against this ridiculous attempt to influence his affections and make him feel dependent.

“You won’t be offered food any other way.” Deucalion says gazing intently at Peter. Peter looks away.

“I understand.” he says quietly, acting the part of a man trying, but failing to adjust so quickly.

Deucalion’s hand snakes under his chin and tilts it up to face him. Peter keeps his eyes downcast.

“Look at me.” Deucalion says.

He had been trying to avoid this. Peter looks up, blue eyes flicking up to meet Deucalion’s silver-red eyes. They’re beautiful. His eyes flicker away for a moment, but Deucalion shakes his jaw and growls, “At me.” and Peter’s gaze is riveted once again.

Deucalion’s expression is serious and concerned. Peter’s breath catches. This is what he had been afraid of. He won’t betray Derek. Not after everything he’s done. Not after Laura. But that doesn’t mean he wants to get hurt any more than he has to in order to make this work. And with Deucalion...he could so easily…

But whatever Deucalion is looking for he seems to have found. He releases Peter’s jaw and the moment is broken, though he continues to stroke Peter’s hair for a moment.

“Go.” he finally says. “You’re excused.”

Peter wastes no time in retreating, allowing himself only a short backwards glance at Deucalion who looks...lonely, sitting at the table with several sandwiches and two tea sets waiting.

Fuck. Peter curses himself and tears himself away from the scene viciously. Deucalion is a liar and a manipulator and ruthless and evil. Peter will not give in to his nostalgia and allow himself to sympathise with the alpha who has threatened to kill the ragged remnants of his family and pack, pathetic as they are.

Damnit. Now that he’s refused to eat from Deucalion’s hand he can’t go back on that decision. Not until he has to. To do otherwise would be tantamount to admitting to a moment of weakness, of vulnerability and if Deucalion figures out what exactly is causing these moments of weakness then Peter will have no chance of winning.

Deucalion is the enemy. Peter reminds himself as he throws himself onto the bed in the guest bedroom.

Deucalion is the enemy.


	7. In Which Peter Gains an Ally (sort of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit of a longer chapter and a bit of a difficult one. I anticipate that a few things in this chapter might change (or be expanded upon) once certain elements of the story are a bit more concrete. I'm not a total by-the-seat-of-my-pants writer, but there are some things I figure out just by writing and in the interest of having pretty quick updates well, some stuff is just a bit hand-waved or not fully explained.  
> But! That's ok. Nothing earth-shattering or story-changing will be in this chapter, just a few details might get shifted around. Such is the way of a WIP being posted as its written. If you don't like that chance that some details might change you're probably better off waiting til the whole thing's written out all the way.
> 
> ANYWAY :P that was a bit of a ramble, hope you enjoooooy!

Some time after lunch Peter slips out of the apartment. He’s not been ordered to stay there. He needs time to think and, to be practical, he’d like to get a clean change of clothes and maybe a toothbrush from his old apartment.

That will be his main excuse, at least, and certainly part of his real motivation, but he has a few other chores to take care of as well. His first stop will be Dr. Deaton’s.

That’s going to be an awkward visit. But it can’t be helped.

He walks to the Veterinarian’s office, just breathing the air and emptying his mind. It’s not often that Peter lets his mind wander without any guidance whatsoever, but it’s not often he’s involved in duping the alpha of an alpha pack in a 24/7 undercover situation. He needs to keep his mind so sharp, so vigilant when he is around the alphas that it’s actually imperative that he give his mind time to rest when he can afford to.

It’s a huge relief already to keep his mind carefully blank and he finds himself at the veterinarian’s earlier than he expected. Peter sighs and prepares himself for what is going to be an incredibly mortifying experience.

Peter walks cautiously into the lobby of the clinic allowing the bell on the door to chime cheerily and waits for Alan to emerge from the back.

“Just a moment.” Alan calls from some room further in the building. Peter doesn’t respond because he’s not entirely certain that Alan will come out if he recognizes Peter’s voice. But there is a slight scuffle from the back, some boxes being shifted and perhaps a dog being let into a pen and eventually Alan does emerge.

When he does come out and see Peter his eyes go hard and his mouth freezes in an expressionless almost-frown. Peter bows his head and attempts to look harmless.

“Peter Hale." Deaton says voice tight and cold, but calm. "I can’t say I expected to see you here...again.”

“And I can’t say I expected to find myself here again, but…” Peter shrugs attempting to appear congenial, “circumstances and…” Deaton’s expression hasn’t changed at all. He’s clearly not going to buy this harmless act. Well...that's not entirely unexpected.

“Listen, I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on, but in any case, some new information has been brought to light that I think it would benefit you to know.” Peter says frankly. Deaton is safe behind his mountain ash foundation, so there’s no reason for him not to take a few moments to listen. Emissaries do tend to be big on information gathering.

Deaton's expression betrays nothing but righteous suspicion. “The alpha pack…”

Peter nods. “They’re being hunted by a darach. Meanwhile I’m playing consultant to them to gather information.” Deaton’s eyes narrow “They don’t know who the darach is and I’ve recommended they get a hagstone which I of course will be able to use for them.” and he can’t help but grin in vicious glee. That one point will be a key advantage for him over the alphas. That one thing they cannot do for themselves. They need him.

“But,” Deaton finishes for him, “if for whatever reason you aren’t available I’m next on the list of those who will be able to use the hagstone."

“Just so.” Peter replies. It’s a relief to converse with someone with intelligence and knowledge for once. “There’s the Stilinski boy as well.” Deaton lets some mild surprise cross his face, “Yes, I know about Stiles, but I doubt Deucalion does.” Peter shrugs. “In any case he might be ripe for some guidance and I hope I can trust you to tell the others about the darach and give them the appropriate warnings.” Deaton ignores that little dig at his hesitation to teach Stiles the ways of the supernatural and gives a nod.

“Peter.” Deaton looks like he’s about to start preaching, a concerned and disappointed expression, “Whatever you think you’re doing with the alphas…”

Peter shakes his head and cuts him off, “No need for a lecture. It’s too late in any case. Deucalion’s claimed me as beta. Ask Scott for the details if you want.”

Deaton isn’t as discouraged as Peter would have liked. “The alphas, whatever they want from you, once they have it, they will tear you apart just because you aren’t one of them.”

“Oh, I agree.” Peter replies, “I’m working on that, too. Speaking of which!” Peter changes the subject of his inevitable, graphic demise at the hands of the alphas to the possible means of preventing it with great enthusiasm, “I need a few things that I think you might have.”

“And why would I give them to you.” Deaton asks. Predictable, but fair.

“Well, first off, I can pay and I don’t think the market for spell components is booming, but, in addition, I’m everyone’s best chance at getting rid of the alpha pack without a massacre.” Peter says. Deaton seems to be seriously considering his words. “You know it’s true. No one else could do what I’m doing.”

It really is true. Not even Deaton can deny that, but he clearly doesn’t trust Peter, and with good reason.

“If you’re waiting to catch one of the alphas off guard…”

Ah, yes, that would seem the most obvious motive for Peter’s sudden allegiance change. Of course Deaton would never believe Peter if he said that he had no interest in being an alpha ever again, that it had been a horrific and terrible experience, that he feels sick when he thinks of how it happened the first time.

Instead he says. “I’m flattered that you hesitate to consider me the lesser of two evils when compared with the alpha pack, but, much as it hurts my pride to admit, I’m nothing when compared to Deucalion and even less when compared with a war between the alphas and a darach powerful enough to challenge them. In this situation, I am very much the lesser of several evils.”

Deaton shakes his head, “Maybe, but I have a policy against contributing to any forces of evil, regardless of comparative levels of evil.”

Peter is suddenly reminded of why he had thrown chairs around last time he was here. Deaton could be incredibly frustrating and stubborn as hell, but, of all the factions in Beacon Hills, he was probably the most trustworthy and the most discrete. Peter sucks in a breath and gives it one last try before laying his cards on the table.

“If you’re waiting for Scott to become the true alpha it won’t matter, especially up against a darach.”

Deaton folds his arms across his chest and remains steadfast in his refusal and much as Peter finds the man incredibly frustrating he has the utmost respect for Alan Deaton.

Peter sighs and sinks into one of the chairs in the reception area. He’ll have to explain everything.

“I think Deucalion is possessed by a demon.” he says simply. There’s no reason to go into detail, not when he doesn’t have real proof and Deaton knows full well what a demon is and what it entails.

Peter looks up to gauge Deaton’s reaction. His face is carefully blank, as usual. Peter sighs and continues, “That’s why the darach is after him, it explains his unreasonable level of power and it means he has a weakness that he himself doesn’t even know about! I think, if I’m careful, I can kill three birds with one stone. The demon, the darach and the alphas.” And if he succeeds it will be a miracle and nothing less, but even if he only partially fails two out of three isn’t bad and any one of them on their own is still quite a feat, but “I can’t do it alone. I need help.” he grits out, though his pride and his paranoia are both squirming uncomfortably in his gut.

Deaton finally looks surprised-concerned, instead of just blank and cold or sad and disappointed.

“Why come to me?” he asks carefully, finally willing, it seems, to entertain the idea that it might be beneficial to help Peter. “Why not go to Derek and your pack?”

“I don’t want them…” Peter sighs and looks away, “I don’t want them on the front lines. I don’t need soldiers, I need support. They’re children. They don’t know anything and they don’t have what I need.” And Derek is the only family he has left. Considering that even that is his fault he has a lot to atone for.

“And what is it you want from me?” Deaton asks cautiously. Peter lets out a relieved sigh, shakier than he thought. It suddenly occurs to him that, without Deaton’s support, this would have been even more impossible that it already is. And he was very close to not having that support.

“I haven’t agreed to help you.” Deaton says quickly when he hears Peter’s sigh of relief.

“I know.” Peter says and smiles softly, “But I think you will. All I need is a few books and a few spell materials. I’d like them in place sooner, rather than later.”

“In place.” Deaton repeats, skeptically.

“I’ll have a few caches ready around town so that I can get to them discreetly, without undue suspicion. I don’t know how long Deucalion will keep my leash once…” Peter pauses thoughtfully, “Well, once I start disobeying him. No reason to pretend I won’t have to eventually.”

Deaton gives him this very concerned partly suspicious look and Peter almost laughs, “You look just like you used to, when Talia and I would come to see you and I had some outlandish plan.” Deaton’s expression doesn’t change much, but Peter shakes his head, “In any case, here’s the list of what I’ll need. And, uh, where I need it, if I can’t see to the placement myself.”

Peter lays a piece of paper carefully on the mountain ash barrier. Deaton doesn’t pick it up, but gives him a hard look.

“No one else can get these things for me.” Peter says. “I know you don’t trust me, but right now, at least, my life is in your hands. Without these I can do nothing.”

Deaton takes the piece of paper. “We’ll see.” he says simply.

Peter doesn’t allow himself to smile, but he nods and ducks out of the clinic. Peter shudders as he finally steps outside, shaking off the tense atmosphere. Peter’s quite confident that Deaton will give him the materials he’s asked for. There’s nothing on the list that could be used for anything so very harmful and when Deaton inevitably asks Scott to corroborate the story he’ll learn that Peter sacrificed his place in Derek’s pack for the safety of the rest of them. If that doesn’t sway him, nothing will and if nothing will sway him Peter’s dead already so there’s no reason to speculate about what he’ll do if Deaton refuses, he just has to go ahead assuming that Deaton will pull through.

It’s a short walk to his apartment. He buys a duffel bag on the way, but the first thing he does when he arrives is to take a quick shower to wash off the scent of the veterinary clinic and the mountain ash. It has a very particular scent. When he’s finished he wastes no time filling the duffel with changes of clothes, toiletries, his kindle (and what an incredible invention that was!) and a few of the less rare items from his bags of tricks and, of course, his laptop.

He tries to let his mind wander and rest on the way back to Deucalion’s apartment, but he’s too preoccupied with returning to the lion’s den to truly relax, especially given that he hadn’t really asked permission to go out. Not that he was forbidden, but still, it is his first ever so slight test of Deucalion’s leash.

Of course, that also means he doesn’t have a key to the apartment, but he manages to get into the building and the elevator. He simply rings the doorbell at the apartment door. If it makes Deucalion get up to let him in, that’s perfectly fine with Peter. In fact, Peter thinks gleefully, if Deucalion were in the bathroom when he rang the bell that would be even better.

But, as it turns out, of course, Deucalion was not in the bathroom or, it seemed, inconvenienced at all by Peter’s arrival.

Deucalion opens the door to Peter with the same mild expression he always has. He takes in Peter’s bag and smiles that unconcerned, secretive smile and steps back so that Peter can enter.

Peter veers off to the guest bedroom, the first door on the right, and drops the duffel at the foot of the bed there. Neither he nor Deucalion have spoken explicitly about sleeping arrangements since the first night and Peter will do as he pleases until Deucalion forces him to do otherwise.

Meanwhile, Deucalion watches from the doorway, silent. Peter becomes more and more tense as he unpacks a few things from the bag, laying clothing out on the bed in preparation for a final relocation to the dresser or closet. Deucalion has said nothing about his trip out, which Peter wishes he could dismiss as a lucky break, but Deucalion is far too crafty not to have a very particular opinion about Peter’s comings and goings.

But all Deucalion does is watch and Peter can only continue to ignore him.

Finally, though, to Peter’s great relief, Deucalion breaks the silence, “There is a key for you, you know.” he says, as though it’s amusing to him. It is not amusing to Peter.

“It’s on the piano.” he continues and moves out of the doorway. For a brief moment Peter thinks that’s going to be it for the night, maybe he’ll be able to barricade himself in this room and read books on his kindle until the hagstone is delivered, but Deucalion hesitates and Peter’s anxiety returns full force.

“You have fortuitous timing, Peter. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.” Deucalion says from the hallway.

Peter’s chest clenches at the implication, though his stomach insists that a meal would be quite welcome. He will not eat scraps from Deucalion’s hand like a pet. Not yet, anyway. Not until he has to.

“I’m not feeling very hungry.” Peter replies, looking away from Deucalion. He waits for Deucalion’s response to the obvious lie.

Deucalion sighs, like a parent with a difficult child and Peter has to ball his fists to keep from doing something...unwise. “Suit yourself, Peter. We both know how this is going to end.” and Deucalion retreats to, presumably, the kitchen.

Peter lets out the breath he had been holding and slumps to a cross legged seat on the floor at the foot of the bed, next to the stupid duffel bag. How ridiculous to have to pack a bag full of clothes and toiletries as though he were going to a slumber party. He sighs and retrieves his kindle. At least he can catch up on the six years of best sellers that he’s missed.  
His stomach growls in hunger and he leans over, bracing his elbows on his knees and allows himself to pout. It’s going to be a long and uncomfortable week.


	8. In Which Peter Visits the Pack and Things Become Very Awkward Very Quickly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, Deaton has told the pack about the darach, so we're assuming they know about that stuff. :D
> 
> Also, for those interested, here is my tumblr, it's not all teen wolf stuff, but there you go: http://corullinterests.tumblr.com/
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter! This was the scene that inspired me to write the whole rest of it :P

The next day is largely uneventful in an uncomfortable way. Peter wakes up earlier than he would have liked, trying to substitute waiting in an unpleasant reality with sleep doesn’t really work when the unpleasant reality of your hunger wakes you up.

Peter takes tea with an outrageous amount of sugar, since he decides to assume that beverages don’t count (and how would Deucalion give him water by hand, that would be just ridiculous), but forgoes breakfast.

He reads most of the day, but becomes bored eventually and decides to investigate the piano to see if there’s any sheet music around. He doesn’t find any, so he settles for playing scales and arpeggios very loudly which, while extremely boring and not at all entertaining, becomes a lot more interesting when you’re waiting to see how long it takes your murderous alpha to become annoyed and tell you to stop.

As it turns out Deucalion’s patience, much to Peter’s disappointment, wins out against Peter’s boredom and he retreats back to his room to continue reading. It’s around lunch time, though, and as he approaches the kitchen he catches the most wonderful scent of a creamy curry with, he inhales, chicken and saffron rice and he finds himself in the doorway to the kitchen almost without being aware of his approach. Deucalion is just transferring the delicious smelling dish from a frying pan to a large serving bowl heaped with white rice.

Deucalion is wearing an apron and, as he returns the pan to the stovetop he seems to catch sight of Peter and smiles. It throws Peter into such a rush of nostalgic memory that he feels almost sick, but a moment later once he’s collected himself a bit he deems that the nausea is probably just a new symptom of his hunger and that Deucalion’s smile is more of a smirk and that he does not look attractive at all in a crisp white apron and being an excellent cook is not at all a quality that Peter admires in a man.

And it’s obvious that Deucalion has cooked something with a strong, delicious scent just to torture him in his self-inflicted fasting.

Peter tears himself away from the kitchen with a muttered, “Asshole.” and returns to his room, slamming the door just a little and then blocking the opening at the bottom with a few shirts so that the smell of the meal won’t get through.

It doesn’t really matter, though. Peter’s hungry enough to eat practically anything, curry chicken and saffron rice, plain chicken and rice, just rice, whatever, but he still won’t eat it from the hand of his alpha. He sublimates the sensations of hunger and concentrates on reading The Bell Jar.

It’s well into the evening when he decides to go out. Deucalion is cooking a late dinner, something with butter and garlic and onions and that’s all Peter can take. As he slams out of the apartment, remembering his key this time, he swears he can hear Deucalion laughing after him, but it’s probably his imagination.

He makes it halfway down the block when he decides to visit Derek’s pack. It’s about time he’s checked in with them. If he leaves them alone for too long they’ll probably decide to mount a daring and completely ineffective rescue and Peter doesn’t have anything left to buy their freedom with.

He looks in on the Stilinski household first then follows the scent of the boy to, unsurprisingly, Scott’s house. Stiles is always in the thick of pack business and is always present at group meetings. Peter is gratified to discover that he has had the good luck to come at a time when the pack was already assembled. He can smell them all, Derek and Cora, the rest of Derek’s betas, Scott, Stiles, of course, and even the little hunter girl. He sighs a bit at that. He remembers killing Kate in front of her, a cruel and unnecessary action, but to go after the girl once vengeance had been served. He still doesn’t know what came over him.

He shakes his head and sighs then rings the doorbell before Derek catches his scent and comes looking for him.

His ears perk up at the discussion inside. They’re expecting a pizza delivery. Stiles is coming to get the door, clumsy and stumbling as usual. Peter grins. This will be very entertaining.

The door is thrown open suddenly and with great enthusiasm and Peter watches with relish as Stiles’ facial expression goes from politely restrained excitement, gratitude and slight anxiousness to surprise, shock, slight fear, confusion and then disgruntled acceptance.

Peter’s grin widens. The silence from the hall prompts Derek to look in from the living room.

“Stiles? What’s…” Derek’s voice dies in his throat. “Peter.”

“Yes, it’s me.” He says whimsically. No one ever seems glad to see him, such a pity. Derek just stands there and Peter rolls his eyes. It’s clear Derek is still feeling the guilt of giving his uncle to Deucalion, but by the end of the night Peter will clear that up with an appropriate dose of assholery. There’s nothing like acting like a jackass to get people to stop feeling guilty about your misfortunes. “Just here to check in with you younglings and do a little bit of information sharing.” he continues with false cheer. It’s easy to pretend that he’s fine in front of the children. It’s easy to feel in control, which is a nice change.

Peter breezes past Stiles and Derek and enters the living room where the others are sitting around a TV paused in the middle of what looks like an explosion. The tension of the room rises from slumber party to hostage situation in less than three seconds. How novel. Scott is even shocked to his feet, although Peter supposes that’s fair, since it is his house.

“No need to stand on my account.” Peter can’t help but joke, but the tension is getting a bit grating, especially given that he came to get away from an unbearably uncomfortable situation. “Relax.” Peter says to the room, “I’m just here to coordinate and I can’t stay long.”

No one relaxes. Peter rolls his eyes.

There are no seats free in the living room, the couch is full, an armchair is occupied and the rest of the kids are unashamedly reclining on the floor. It irrationally irks Peter, given that he hasn’t been allowed to sit in an actual chair in the presence of others for the past two days. Derek moves past him to the kitchen and Peter follows. Presumably there will be seating there and they can get down to business quickly. Peter doesn’t really want to admit that he has a ten pm. curfew to a bunch of teenagers who probably haven’t had a curfew for a few years now.

But just then the doorbell rings and Stiles once again trips over his feet to get to the door. There’s a brief exchange with a delivery person and Peter’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head at the heavenly scent of melted cheese and baked bread and Stiles is carrying a stack of several pizzas into the kitchen and Peter allows his restraint to fly out the window.

“Oh, thank god.” he exclaims dramatically and makes a beeline for Stiles, relieving him of the top box of pizza. He carries it out into the living room and, as most of the kids have followed the smell of pizza to the kitchen, he throws himself down on the now-vacated couch, lifts the lid and begins to devour the first slice he gets his hands on.

It seems the teenagers aren’t as hungry as he is since they forego the pizza in order to marvel at the unexpected spectacle of Peter Hale having a religious experience while eating pizza. Peter, content with the pizza, does not care what they do as long as the don’t take his pizza.

“Um...pretty sure you weren’t included in our dinner plans.” Scott says slowly as Peter pants through a mouthful of too hot cheese.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I got you and your families off the alphas immediate hit list.” he says between ravenous bites. “I can eat your pizza if I want.”

Derek frowns. Peter raises and eyebrow, which loses some effectiveness given the simultaneous enthusiastic chewing, daring Derek to protest.

But Derek simply says, “I thought you didn’t like olives.” taking Peter aback.

Peter looks down at the pizza in his lap, halfway through his second slice. There are pepperoni slices, bell peppers and, sure enough, olives. “You’re right. I don’t.” he says in quiet surprise. He had not expected Derek to remember. It hits him low in the chest, a nagging, nostalgia for a time when his family would have had pizza nights together, a time when Derek might have bothered to notice that Peter didn’t like olives on his pizza. But he shakes it off and approaches the counter where Stiles has put the other pizzas.

“What other toppings did you get?” he asks cheekily, trying to distract them from the slip up with the olives, but Stiles slides into his path, using a stack of paper plates as a shield. He wouldn’t have remained between Peter and the pizza for long, but his interference gives Derek enough time to grab him to grab him by the back collar of his jacket and haul him backwards.

“You said you had information.” Derek says, stepping between him, Stiles and the beloved pizza.

Peter smooths his collar sharply, although it’s mostly for show, “Careful, Derek. You aren’t my alpha anymore.” he says, mouth twisting into an unpleasant smile. If he can play off Derek’s guilt he’s more likely to get what he wants without having to explain any...compromising details. He’ll worry about damage control to Derek’s psyche later.

Derek growls, “You’re the one who made the deal.”

Peter shrugs. “You’re the alpha. You’re supposed to take care of these things. I shouldn’t have needed to step in at all.” He says, which is completely unfair, but the pizza is so close.

“I was taking care of it.” Derek growls.

“If by taking care of it you mean getting our pack slaughtered, then I agree with you.” Peter replies heatedly and that is fair. He pauses a moment, “Your pack.” he corrects himself absently.

“They killed Erica!” Isaac, one of Derek’s surviving beta’s pipes up.

“If you want to go on a suicidal rampage so you can be part of her honor guard into the Halls of Valhalla be my guest.” Peter says with vicious sarcasm, “I let the dead bury the dead and worry about keeping the living alive.” Then he turns sharply back to Derek. This line of conversation is irrelevant and counterproductive.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. Pizza first, then information.” he demands and crosses his arms akimbo.

The pack is clearly displeased by his mercenary tendencies regarding death, but he can’t mourn for a girl he never knew when everyone else is in mortal danger.

“Jeez, what is it with you?” Stiles says, his distaste written plainly on his face, “What kind of person cares more about pizza than murdered teenagers? Are they starving you or something?”

And that was the last thing Peter had expected him to say. There must have been some give away, some tell, some twitch that gave him away, probably his heartbeat, but Derek’s eyes widen in surprise and Peter mumbles a soft “Oh, for fuck’s sake”. This was exactly the kind of scene he’d been trying to avoid. But, on the positive side, their shock has cleared a path to the pizza, which he of course takes advantage of and begins to open the boxes to find toppings to his taste.

Pepperoni. That will do just fine.

“They’re starving you?” Derek fumes, somewhere between rage, indignation and disbelief.

Peter turns back to the shocked room with a mouth full of pizza. He gives Derek a sardonic glare. (Because Derek has killed him in the past and he’s worried about a little starvation? Honestly. What did they think the alphas were going to do to him?) And now they’re all looking at him like frightened, wounded children. They’re pitying him, which can be useful sometimes, but not now. So he has to nip that in the bud, too.

“Not technically, no.” he says when he finishes chewing. He does enjoying playing with them though, holding them in suspense. They’re frustration is palpably entertaining. He lets them squirm, resisting the urge to smirk at their discomfort.

“Not tech--ok. what?” Stiles says, “Are they letting you intake enough calories to maintain your body weight or not?” he finally asks directly and specifically. He loves how Stiles plays the guessing games with him. He gets so deliciously frustrated.

“Well, the offer is open, but...” Peter shrugs, “I elect to decline.”

“You’re starving yourself.” Stiles translates.

Peter thinks for a moment. “That would probably technically be a more accurate way to put it, yes.”

“Why?” Stiles draws out the syllable.

“You know,” Peter says conversationally, because he doesn’t actually really want to talk about this, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable discussing the details of my relationship with my new alpha around my ex-alpha.”

But, of course, Derek isn’t satisfied with that. The barb doesn’t have its intended effect of distracting him from the topic. Derek corners him against the kitchen counters and traps him with his arms. The problem with Derek’s stubbornness is that he can back it up with brute force, an inelegant but mostly effective combination, much to Peter’s chagrin.

“Explain.” Derek snarls, his eyes flashing red.

Peter growls back. He could force the issue, but it would take effort and Derek can be so fucking stubborn and Peter has had enough trouble resisting alphas for the past few days, so he backs down. Guilt makes Derek malleable anyway.

“Deucalion,” the name is sharp in his mouth, “has demanded certain conditions be met, barring those conditions I am not permitted to feed myself.” he explains stiffly. “However, since you bought the pizza, technically you are feeding me.” He smiles cheerily and shrugs, “Loopholes.”

“What conditions?” Derek snaps. His eyes are a deep pulsing red and his claws are scratching the counter.

Peter daintily pries Derek’s fingers off the counter and lifts his hand away from him, stepping out of the triangle of Derek’s arms. “Don’t ask questions to which you don’t want the answers.” he replies.

“Besides,” he continues, “it’s really not important and it’s certainly not what I came here to discuss.”

Behind him Stiles chokes on his soda and sputters out, “Not important? They’re torturing you.”

Peter rolls his eyes and leans against the kitchen’s island, keeping it between him and Derek. “Don’t be so dramatic; it’s just mind games and power plays.” Peter says honestly, “Besides, it can’t last long anyway.” He shrugs. “This will buy some time.” he adds absently, gesturing at the pizza.

“Ok, what?” Stiles interrupts again, “It can’t last long? What are you going to do starve yourself to death?”

Peter can’t resist rolling his eyes again. “No. If I wanted to kill myself I would have gone along with Derek’s plan.” Derek glares. “Deucalion isn’t going to let me die. He needs me. Right now we’re just testing each other.” At Stiles’ blank look, and head shake Peter explains further. The boy is clearly not going to drop it. Peter sighs, “Eventually things will come to a head when I’m too weak to do the work he wants me to. At that point I’ll have forced his hand to the point where, he can either let me eat however I want, or he’ll have to force me.”

The kids look horrified, but he doesn’t notice. Instead he smirks and gloats, “Either way, I win.”

“How is that winning?” Stiles asks, looking utterly disbelieving.

Peter rolls his eyes and sighs. This is so disappointing. “Really, Stiles, I thought you were the smart one. He wants to control me and he can’t.” he says smugly, “So he’s trying to manipulate me into vulnerability so that he can necessitate my trust. If he has any long term plans for my cooperation he’ll probably try to activate the capture-bonding instinct.” Peter taps the counter, thinking about what defensive strategies he should employ.

“Ok, but what does that have to do with the food?” Scott says, “Isn’t he just trying to make you uncomfortable, like really hungry?”

“No.” Peter sighs. Kids these days. He might as well explain it all, “His condition is that I don’t feed myself. The assumption is that I’ll have to go to him for food. Yes, it’s about his having that power over me, but it’s unlikely that he’ll withhold food. Why would he? What he wants is for me to become accustomed to being under his control and to be complicit in it. If I ask him for food I have to be assuming that he’ll give it to me and acknowledging and accepting his power over me.” Peter pauses. “It’s also a positive association and would likely instill a deeply instinctive sense of gratitude and debt, hence the capture-bonding angle.”

“Capture-bonding?” Stiles asks.

“Don’t they teach you anything these days?” Peter asks primly, “Capture-bonding is the hypothesised social explanation for Stockholm syndrome.”

“So he’s trying to Stockholm you?” Stiles asks.

“Basically, yes.” Peter shrugs. If that’s the oversimplification that makes them drop the topic, then that is just fine with him. “And,” he continues seriously, “given pre-existing beta-alpha relationships he has a fairly significant head start. Luckily,” he says, changing his tone, “it’s me we’re talking about. And I have you to feed me pizza with impunity.”

“He won’t let you get away with that more than once.” Derek says.

“Thanks for that, negative nancy, I know.” Peter replies. He shrugs, “Like I said. It’s not important. Food is the interchangeable detail. I’ve gone hungry before. But speaking of impunity...”

Peter waits for Derek’s nod to continue. He has Derek’s full attention. “You know that the deal I made, your amnesty?” Derek nods again and the pups are listening attentively as well, “It’s just a courtesy. If you get in their way I have no doubt they will eliminate you, regardless of our deal.”

“You came here to threaten us?” Derek asks, with incredulous anger.

“No, you idiot. I’m here to warn you.” Peter yells. He’s given up a lot. He’s put himself in danger. He’s put his personality in danger for this boy and his children, “I am not the hostage in this situation. You are. The only reason you aren’t all bloody stains on the floor of an abandoned mall is me and the fact that I know how to negotiate. Deucalion can take what he wants. He didn’t because I offered it to him for a price that didn’t cost him anything. He doesn’t care if you live or die, but the minute he does care to take your lives you’ll be dead, bargain or no. Especially now that I’m his beta. Nothing is protecting you but his word.”

“You think he’ll break his word.” Derek extrapolates.

“I think if it benefits him, he’ll break his word in a second. And when this is over and he doesn’t need me anymore?” Peter shakes his head and shrugs, “He might keep his word,” He gives Derek a pointed look, “but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”

“What should we do then?” Derek asks with exasperation. His nephew has never been what you would call patient, nor did he like inactivity.

“You watch your back, Derek, and you stay out of the way. Meanwhile, you make sure you’ll be ready when this is over and” he smiles “you feed me pizza.”

“That’s it?” Derek asks incredulously.

“You never learn, do you?” Peter says conversationally, “There are so many more advantages to be gained before a battle than during one. You’ll need those advantages. Train the pups. Research. Spy, if you can, but do it cautiously. Learn about your enemy. Find allies.” Peter pauses thoughtfully, “Try to get Chris Argent on your side.”

“My dad?” Allison startles. “But you’re...you guys are mortal enemies.”

Peter frowns and looks at her quizzically, “I have no quarrel with Christopher.” he states, “We aren’t friends or allies, but he follows his little code to the letter, always has. He protects his family.” Peter shrugs, “He’s a good man with simple motives. He’s not interested in schemes and double-crosses. He’s a good fighter. He has knowledge and experience and is a solid tactician though he’s not been particularly effective at information gathering.”

Allison looks shocked to hear his opinions, either because she didn’t think those were his opinions, or she’s surprised to hear someone break down her father’s strengths and weaknesses such a calculating way.

“In short,” Peter concludes, “He would prove a valuable ally.”

“But Kate...” Allison protests predictably.

“Chris is not Kate. Nor is he Gerard.” Peter says, staring at her unblinkingly, “I don’t punish entire families for the traits of singular members.”

Allison gives him a bitch face. He gives her a call-em-like-I-see-em sneer.

“Enough.” Derek says trying to defuse the situation. He turns to Peter, “Will you be able to get us more information?”

Peter shrugs, “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed contact with the pack. After this,” he smirks, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he forbade it. If you don’t hear from me, just be patient. I’ll find a way to get information to you eventually. Probably through Stilinski, here, since he’s not a wolf.”

Derek frowns but nods. Stiles makes an annoyed gesture at not being consulted.

Peter deliberates for a moment. He should really leave soon, but there’s one more thing, “If there’s an emergency, and I do mean an emergency, have Scott call me.”

Scott shakes his head like the little puppy he is, “But I don’t have your number.”

Peter shakes his head, smirking as he grabs his coat from the back of a chair, “Derek, try to explain the basics to your pups and then teach Scott what to do.” He heads for the front door.

“Scott’s not an alpha.” Derek says, following him to the hall.

“He will be.” Peter replies. He reaches the door and turns back for a moment, “Watch your back, Derek. The darach is still out there and we don’t know what it wants.” which is only sort of a lie.

Derek nods and the moment becomes awkward. They aren’t on good terms, to be sure, but there is always that lingering nostalgic concern for family. They could each build something new, find new family, or try, but for whatever reason it seems safer to cling to what has already survived the fire. Tempered.

“Be careful.” Derek finally settles on.

Peter smirks and says, “I always am.” just because he can and strides off into the night.


	9. In Which Peter Does not Learn His Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER. Just fyi. :D Fast update! Yay! I hope you guys enjoy!!!
> 
> Also! Just as a fun thing for those interested: themed comments! This chapter's theme is: what was your favorite piece of dialogue so far?  
> (Hopefully this'll be fun and will help me see what parts of the story are working best. And if you have an idea for a comment-theme throw that in a comment too! :D )

Peter walks slowly back to the apartment, uneager to return to the situation he left. There is a small park near the apartment, really just a glorified lot with one tree a small perimeter of mulch surrounding it and a few peonies therein, but there’s a bench to sit on and it’s quiet. Peter makes his way there and sighs as he sags onto the bench.

This week is going to be very distressing. Without anything to do, just waiting for the hagstone, with only his hunger and Deucalion for company it is going to be a long haul until the hagstone comes. Peter takes a deep breathe. The air is full of the scents of growing things, the tree, the grass, the flowers. It smells like home, earthy and grounding, a small bit of the forests near the Hale house. Pitiful as it is, it’s comforting.

Peter stays there trying not to think about the next week and what punishment Deucalion will exact for his breaking the rules by eating with the pack. Peter has wagered that the punishment will not be very harsh, since the rule he’s broken is based solely on Deucalion’s whimsy and has very little, if anything at all, to do with his effectiveness at discovering the identity of the darach. Well, even if it is a harsh punishment, it will be very educational.

Peter rises from the bench, checks his watch and frowns. He’s lingered here a few minutes more than he meant to, but he’ll easily reach the apartment before ten if he walks briskly. He sets off, a little sad for the smell of fresh grass fading from the air, but pushes on towards the apartment.

The lobby is nearly empty but Peter smiles sardonically as he detects very faintly the scent of Chris Argent. That particular detail of the situation never fails to entertain Peter.

Peter presses the button for the elevator and closes his eyes to wait. It’s a pity Chris is connected to the Argents. He would make a fantastic wolf. Peter grins viciously at the thought of biting Chris, not that he could now, but still. The man is uncompromisingly loyal to his ideals, he’s smart and driven and he already knows the way things work. Yes, he would make a very satisfactory wolf and it would almost be poetic, it would almost be just to use the family who brought his pack so low to build that same pack up again.

Peter lets his mind wander. How would Christopher get bitten? Where would the bite be? Would he even survive it? If he decided to live as a wolf would he be content as a beta or would he challenge the alpha?

Peter is shaken out of his revery at an unfamiliar voice, “You waiting for the elevator?” It’s the doorman, a rather drab man of no consequence. Peter nods.

“It’s out.” the man says, “Sorry for the inconvenience.” he adds, though he doesn’t look particularly sorry.

Peter looks at his watch and curses himself. He’s been waiting for the elevator, just letting his mind wander and meanwhile he’s about ten seconds away from missing his curfew.

Peter sighs and resists, just barely, the urge to rip the elevator’s button panel out of the wall. It probably won’t matter if he misses the curfew by a minute or two he muses as he starts walking up the stairs. It almost certainly won’t matter in light of the fact that he’s eaten four slices of pizza or so.

Peter isn’t alarmed until he opens the door from the stairwell to the 24th floor hallway and smells all the alphas and is suddenly very aware that he hadn’t brought his phone with him. With any luck they alphas are not here anymore. With any luck whatsoever they’re not here for a meeting at which Peter, as the occult consultant, is supposed to be present.

Peter unlocks the door and attempts to act naturally but, as he enters the apartment he comes to the realization that if he has any luck at all it is the horrifically bad kind. He should have guessed as much. If he had any luck he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

In any case, here he is, five minutes over curfew, if that matters, with all the alphas present except Deucalion, the only alpha with any positive interest in his well being. Well this is going to be about as fun as getting limbs broken.

In fact, it could turn out to be exactly as fun as getting limbs broken. But, in for a penny, in for a pound as they say. If he’s going to get limbs broken he might as well deserve it and hopefully he can start work on the rift between Deucalion and the rest of his alphas.

He waltzes into the living room as though he’s the host of a society party who’s just shown up fashionably late. “Hello, everyone. Kali.” he nods a greeting. “Ethan, Aiden, how’s school going?” They seem unable to decide whether or not to take offense. So they’re still unsure of themselves, not quite comfortable in the seat of power.

“Ennis.” he says and smirks as Ennis glares at him, “How was the drive over?” and that’s all it takes with Deucalion gone. Ennis leaps at him snarling and Peter ducks behind the piano, suddenly sure that he’s gone too far and is about to be slaughtered.

Peter slides under the piano, hoping, probably vainly, that Ennis might hesitate to damage the expensive instrument. Kali and the twins are both standing now, but they don’t enter the fray. Ennis follows him under the piano nearly snagging his leg with a wickedly clawed hand. Peter exits under the piano bench then knocks it on its side, briefly, very briefly blocking Ennis’ path, but the bench doesn’t last long and fairs about as well as Peter himself probably will if he gets caught. That is to say, it gets absolutely shredded.

Peter is about to bolt down the hallway and perhaps to the stairwell, although it’s not an ideal venue for a fight. He’d still rather run and stall for as long as possible, but Kali is now blocking the exit and the two twins are blocking the other exits to the kitchen and the bedroom. Ennis approaches slowly from behind.

In short he’s totally fucked.

The alphas don’t say anything. They don’t need to taunt him. Peter’s been a disrespectful ass and they’re the big dogs in this town. They’re going to hurt him just to show him that they can. They’re all on the same page here, but, since he can’t really dig himself any deeper and he also finds it difficult to keep his mouth shut Peter can’t help but comment as Ennis slowly backs him into a corner.

“I see how it is,” Peter says snidely. “you won’t do anything when Deucalion is here, but when the cat’s away the mice will play.”

Ennis roars and charges him. There’s no room to dodge though, between the dining room table and the wall. Peter backpedals and twists a chair into Ennis’ path tripping him neatly. The chair is torn apart within seconds though and the element of surprise is gone when he throws the next chair. After that his back is up against the wall and the other alphas are closing in too. The game is up for Peter. There’s no way he’s going to come out on top in this and he has no idea when Deucalion will be back.

So he raises his arms in the air and quickly says “I surrender!” with a grin that he can’t quite tamp down because he’s always appreciated gallows humor more than most others.

Ennis surges forward and Peter curls into the corner. He’s taken enough beatings to know what to do, protect your belly with your legs, protect your head with arms. Ennis doesn’t strike him though, he sinks his claws into Peter’s biceps and grabs him. Peter quickly reciprocates his own clawed grip on Ennis’ forearms, but then Ennis hefts him up, his feet leave the ground and he’s thrown full force somewhere across the room.

The corner of the table catches his hip as he comes down, twisting him and he lands hard on the steps down to the living room, his head slamming the corner of one of the steps. He blacks out, just for a moment, but the room comes back blurry and spinning slightly. There might be blood in his eyes? There’s a loud insistent ringing in his ears.

Ennis lurches into his shifting field of vision and Peter scoots backwards, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell with the room moving around and pulsating like that. So, concussion. No broken bones yet though, so that’s a plus.

Ennis’ visage is suddenly much closer, kneeling over him and there’s a fist coming towards his ribs fast and, oh, there’re the broken bones now. Peter screams and kicks out hard striking Ennis in the knee, then swipes wildly, claws extended. Ennis catches his arm and flips him over.

There’s blood in his mouth as Ennis twists his arm behind his back. Peter scrambles under his grip as best he can, eyes screwed shut against the pain, his claws scratching the hardwood floor but Ennis is holding him down and pulling his arm backwards, up, twisting it.

The joint comes free of the socket. Peter jerks in Ennis’ grip and screams, going taut and then trying, willing himself to go limp because maybe they’ll leave him alone if he gives up. It’s the only thing he can do. There is a roaring sound and Ennis releases him suddenly, but Peter can’t find the strength to move for long moments as he pants on the floor, curling into a more defensive position.

Eventually he rolls to the side slightly and opens his eyes. He quickly shuts them again when both the room and his stomach start spinning. He does catch sight of Deucalion though, standing between him and Ennis. He allows himself a small triumphant smile, tucked away in the crook of his intact arm.

He can let Deucalion take over for now, since he obviously doesn’t want Peter dead or beaten further. Now is the time to heal, but he’s learned that Ennis is probably the next most aggressive alpha and that he’s sensitive to insults. He and Deucalion seem to be at odds about Peter’s behavior.

Well, not exactly. From what Peter’s overhearing past the ringing in his ears Deucalion only seems annoyed that he didn’t get to enact punishment himself, which isn’t exactly comforting, but also might be just a show for the other alphas.

In any case, Peter isn’t moving for a while unless he has to and maybe the room stops lurching around everytime he opens his eyes and his ears stop ringing.

But Peter feels a hand grasp his shoulder and, to his chagrin, he flinches hard, not having heard anyone approach. His eyes fly open and Deucalion’s face swims in and out of focus. His mouth is moving, but Peter can’t understand what he’s saying at all. Deucalion looks so absurd, blurring and fading in and out and spinning, sometimes with the room and sometimes counter to it, that Peter can’t help but give him a bloody grin and laugh because he won’t even be able to hear what he’s saying if he tries to use words. Perhaps he’s discovered the ultimate defense to Deucalion’s instructions: the la-la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you defense. Peter laughs harder, choking a little on blood.

Deucalion seems to frown, maybe, it’s hard to tell, but his face recedes and Peter finds himself being dragged down the hallway, still laughing, by the back of his shirt, past the kitchen until he’s thrown, unceremoniously into the guest bedroom. He might scream at the jarring impact, but he can’t be sure.

The door is slammed behind him and Peter’s not sure if it locks, but he’s not going anywhere. He can’t stop laughing for what feels like minutes. Adrenaline always has a funny effect on him.  
He briefly contemplates trying to get up onto the bed, but it looks to blurry to be really comfortable anyway. He laughs for a moment more and then quietly passes out.


	10. In Which Peter is Highly Alarmed and Deucalion is Even More of a Creeper than He Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. GUYS.
> 
> I'm really mad :P Sorry this post is a bit late, first of all. I was doing a fanart for this chapter (le gasp! doing fanart for my own story! :O) and I was working on it this morning for a couple hours and LIKE AN IDIOT I DIDN'T SAVE and of COURSE gimp crashed and then I was mad and had to take a break and now I've finished the chapter, but uh...yeah.
> 
> SO...sorry for the delay and I'll get that fanart up as soon as I can get over my deep abiding rage. :P herp derp
> 
> OH! and this chapter's comment theme is...most unexpected moment.

Peter wakes to an incredible headache which is uncommon enough for a werewolf. He also wakes partially submerged in water, which, as far as he knows, is very uncommon for pretty much everyone.

His eyes fly open and he begins to flail. His head isn’t underwater, but it’s still eminently unnerving to wake up in water. He closes his eyes quickly against a very bright and slightly lurching room which really doesn’t help his nausea, but he does manage to confirm that he’s in the bathroom of the apartment suite.

“Finally awake, hm?” Deucalion says and the arm that is wrapped around his torso tightens and hefts him further up in his reclining position against Deucalion’s chest. Peter freezes, unable to assimilate the new information at the rate it is being presented. He pauses to get his thoughts in order.

He is in a bath in the penthouse apartment. He is in a bath with Deucalion, naked, practically on top of Deucalion. And he doesn’t know how he got here. And they’re naked. He’s reclining against Deucalion’s chest, between his legs, naked. And he certainly wasn’t conscious when he got here and that is just...well, it’s terrifying.

“What the hell.” Peter says, for lack of any other helpful observation.

The arm around him tightens and Peter feels Deucalion nuzzling the back of his head, “Calm down, Peter.” he says.

“I am perfectly calm.” Peter says slowly.

Peter is not at all calm.

Deucalion shifts behind him, presumably to get a better angle with which to converse with Peter now that he’s conscious, but the movement only serves to punctuate the situation and Peter tenses, impossibly, even more and Deucalion stops mid-move.

He seems perplexed by Peter’s behavior when he speaks, “It’s alright, Peter. Ennis and the others are gone.” Deucalion doesn’t understand.

Peter snorts and regrets it when his headache punishes him viciously for it. “I’m not worried about Ennis.” he says disdainfully. “I’ve taken a beating before.” Hell, he’s practically a professional at that. “Never unexpectedly woken up naked in a bathtub with another man before though. I don’t recommend the experience.” he says viciously.

“You were bleeding on the carpet.” Deucalion says from behind him as if that makes everything make sense. Peter rolls his eyes and responds darkly, “Good.”

Deucalion smiles against the back of his head and Peter, now that his initial shock has been dispelled, tries to force himself to relax to dubious success. His head is pounding still and he thinks his ribs are still somewhat broken. The punctures in his arms from Ennis’ claws have scabbed over but they’re far from healed. Most of the bruising has cleared up by now, although he can still faintly taste blood.

Suddenly Peter is feeling the full effects of taking a beating only, he estimates, three hours ago at most in addition to only having had one meal in the past two days. He’s exhausted. Regardless of the rest of his misgivings about the situation he’s just too tired to panic and now that he’s got some control back he can get back to playing the disgruntled hostage.

He huffs a sigh and leans back against Deucalion, giving in to the situation for now. Of course Deucalion interprets that as acceptance rather than grudging exhaustion and he leans in to the crook of Peter’s neck. Peter still can’t help himself from tensing somewhat, but Deucalion ignores it.

“What happened?” Peter asks. Of course he knows what happened to him, but he’s interested to hear Deucalion’s version and why the alphas were there in the first place.

“I was just a little late for a meeting.” Peter frowns. It doesn’t seem like Deucalion will tell him what the meeting was about, which is somewhat disturbing. “Imagine my surprise when I returned to find Ennis about to crush your ribcage into nothing.”

Peter snorts. “Really? That surprised you?”

Deucalion ignores him and continues. “I made it clear to the others that your punishment was to be solely at my discretion.”

Peter smirks. Perfect. The alphas were already at odds over him.

“Speaking of which,” Deucalion says and suddenly Peter’s jaw is caught tightly in Deucalion’s grip. Peter opens his mouth in suprise and Deucalion pushes a finger into his mouth. Peter squirms but Deucalion holds him firmly against his chest. “Much as I enjoy our little chats if you taunt the others again,” and Deucalion’s clawed finger scrapes ever so lightly against the inside of his cheek. Peter tenses, trying not to move, not to breathe, “I will cut out your tongue.” The finger retreats and briefly caresses his lips. Peter shudders. “You’ll heal of course, but it will take a while.”

It takes Peter a few moments to remember how to breathe, but he nods jerkily. Behind him Deucalion sighs.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Peter.” Deucalion says, one hand skimming down Peter’s side to rest gently over his injured ribs and the pain is gently being drawn out of him. What the hell was going on? Suddenly Deucalion cares about his wellbeing, wishes their relationship weren’t so, dare he say, one-sided?

Deucalion bows his head against Peter and holds Peter tightly to himself, “I never should have let you leave Riverside.”

Riverside. Then all this time… Maybe Peter hasn’t been the only one pretending that any affection there had been was now a thing of the past.

And if Peter had known that all he had to do was play the damsel to Deucalion’s knight he would have done it on day one. He almost laughs.

Sure Deucalion might cut out his tongue as punishment or give him a bath while he was unconscious, but Peter can take all that. The important thing now is that Deucalion is unlikely to kill him and as long as he’s alive he can get what he wants eventually.

Not that he wants his tongue cut out or to be surprise-bathed-with.

The only problem is, with Deucalion’s affections now overt, Peter will have to be much more careful about his own...not affection...his nostalgia, for the old Deucalion.

Not quite yet, though. Right now he’s going to milk this for all its worth. He’s going to see just how far Deucalion’s affections will go.

He relaxes completely against Deucalion, much more comfortable now that he has more than just subterfuge. He has power now.

“Thank you.” Peter says as Deucalion stops removing his pain. The pain in his side is nearly gone and his headache is just a faint throb. Deucalion responds with a light chuckle.

“Don’t thank me yet.” he replies, “I still haven’t punished you for breaking the rules.”

But Ennis had…”Don’t you think this was punishment enough?” Peter asks, trying not to sound more like he’s arguing for fairness and less like he just doesn’t want to be punished, which is actually the case.

“Don’t bring me into that.” Deucalion says, “You knew you were stirring up a hornets nest and my rules have nothing to do with you getting stung as a result.”

Peter frowns and doesn’t reply. There isn’t really much he can say, although it’s frustrating for Deucalion to practically make a declaration of love and then remind Peter that he’s still going to beat him for his mistakes.

“Don’t worry, Peter.” Deucalion says with a smirk in his voice, “I have no interest in repeating ineffective punishments.”

“Ineffective?” Peter asks meekly.

“You don’t actually expect me to believe that Ennis’ tantrum will prevent you from taunting him in the future, do you?”

Peter sighs, “No, I suppose you know me too well for that.” and he just has to ask, “So what are you going to do?”

Deucalion hums musingly, “What do you think would be fair?”

Peter has a prompt reply to that one, “I think you should get rid of all the rules, because they are clearly counterproductive.” he says flippantly.

“Interesting.” Deucalion says, pretending to take his suggestion seriously, “How about I add a few more rules?”

“I think that’s a terrible idea.” Peter says honestly.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” Deucalion smirks against the back of his head, “Stop skipping meals, Peter.” Deucalion says, suddenly serious.

“Not,” Peter begins, “if I have to eat from your hand.”

Deucalion scoffs, “You’ve eaten from my hand before.”

“You know it’s not the same.” Peter says, headache kicking in again.

“Yes,” Deucalion replies. “And I don’t care.”

“Of course not.” Peter says, anger making him incautious, “Now that I’m your beta you don’t have to woo me into respecting you. You can just take what you want.”

“Yes, I can.” Deucalion says, half-prideful half-angry.

“Well, the joke’s on you, Deuce. I have no respect for you.” Peter replies before he can think about what his mouth is doing.

Before he can try to verbally backpedal Deucalion’s hand is wrapped around his throat, squeezing just slightly. “Be careful, Peter. I can tell when you’re lying.” And of course there are some things Peter respects about Deucalion, his ability to tear Peter apart is one.

“I know you’re not used to have a alpha who demands this kind of obedience, but you are my beta now and I can do whatever I like with you.” Deucalion hisses into his ear. “Your punishments are these: you may no longer have any contact with your old pack, including McCall, you may not leave the apartment without asking for permission and” Deucalion pauses to scent Peter’s neck, no doubt taking note of his rabbiting pulse. “when you sleep, you will sleep in my bed.”

Peter barely resists telling Deucalion exactly what he can do with his stupid rules. Instead he says, “Fine.” and, after a short moment of weighing the pros and cons, he hops out of the bathtub. Deucalion doesn’t stop him but, as Peter can see in the mirror, he watches very closely as Peter hurriedly wraps a towel around his hips, blushing to his enormous frustration.

Deucalion says nothing but as Peter glances back at him as he exits the bathroom he finds that Deucalion is still merely staring, darkly and openly. Peter looks away and retreats to his room.

Shit. There is no pretense anymore that Deucalion is still attracted to Peter. Not now that he’s admitted he wishes Peter had remained in Riverside. And given that Deucalion’s finally come out and said that, as Peter’s alpha, he can take whatever he wants…

It’s not that Peter hadn’t thought about this eventuality, that he might have to...well, Peter’s not one for self-delusion so, whore, but after his first encounter with Deucalion and his hypothesis about the demon, well, he had expected only ruthless ambition. This new addition of desire is very unexpected.

Peter sighs and flops down onto the bed. Fuck it. It’s not as though he and Deucalion haven’t done it before. And it was always good.  
But in the meantime Peter’s just going default to his standby avoidance maneuvers. No eating or sleeping. It’s going to be a very exciting week.


	11. In Which Peter has a Strange Dream and Visits Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! :D
> 
> Fun chapter! No notes really, although most of this chapter is Stiles and Peter interactions. Next chapter will be looots of Peter and Deucalion! :D Hurray!
> 
> Comment if you liiiike. This chapter's comment theme is: fav. non Peter-Deucalion interaction and why :D

Peter spends the night reading in the living room and making coffee and tea alternately. A lot of coffee and tea. Deucalion merely gives him an indulgent and amused look as he readies himself for bed, but leaves Peter to his sleepless vigil without comment.

When he gets up in the morning he shakes his head at Peter and says facetiously, “I’ve heard that pulling on your earlobes is a good way to keep yourself awake.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll definitely be trying that.” Peter says sarcastically.

Deucalion just smirks, “You’re only hurting yourself, Peter.”

“I am well aware of that.” Peter replies dryly.

Deucalion shrugs. “Breakfast will be ready soon, if you’re so inclined.” he says and walks out to the kitchen.

Peter snorts in response. He is no more inclined to eat from Deucalion’s hand today than he was yesterday or the day before that. He manages to get through another few hours of reading before a pounding headache manifests in addition to the discomfort of a hunger which has returned with a vengeance after the pizza episode. There’s no aspirin in the apartment, of course, because why would werewolves need aspirin.

Peter moves to watching terribly inaccurate ‘documentaries’ on the supernatural because it doesn’t require him to focus, which helps with the headache, and because it’s so painfully ridiculous, which helps with staying awake.

Eventually, in a stroke of luck around 1 pm. Deucalion informs Peter that he’s going out and leaves without fanfare.

Peter immediately takes the opportunity to sleep in Deucalion’s bed, as he is required to do, without Deucalion in it. He sets his phone alarm for only a single hour because he doesn’t know how long Deucalion will be out and, while he’s following the rules to the letter, he still doesn’t want Deucalion to walk in on him disobeying the “spirit” of the law, as he had called it.

The bed smells like Deucalion and cotton, which is perfect. He can trick the instinctual desire to be near to and bond with his alpha at least a little bit, so that’s a plus.

He falls into sleep quickly

________________________________________

He is in a large cage, vertical steel bars and a padlock door, raw hinges, simple and effective except that the bars are so widely spaced; he could easily slip through them.

He is outside the large cage. But he can see himself in the cage. Why don’t you escape? He says to himself. Why don’t you slip through the bars?

I can’t, he replies and steps aside revealing a glass box full of dolls, most burned and unrecognizable except for a few. Derek’s is the largest still intact, then there is a doll for Stiles and Scott McCall, one for Deaton and Lydia and Allison, even one for Chris Argent, though it is small, almost an afterthought.

The box is embedded into the floor. There is no lid or latch. It is all smooth seamless glass.

If I leave I lose everything.

Peter-outside-the-cage frowns and turns to the right where there is another cage. It is Riverside, somehow the cage encompassing the landscape of the whole region in replica. There are bluffs and rocky cliffs with wild brush flowers and beaches, all in the cage.

And Deucalion is inside, smiling at Peter, younger and carefree and just as Peter remembers him, reclining comfortably in the ineffective cage.

Peter smiles and approaches, but as he moves towards the cage, the widely spaced bars seem to close in and grow. By the time he reaches the cage there is barely enough room to push his hand through, which he does, reaching for the Deucalion from his memories and the brief time in his life when he had known abiding contentment.

Deucalion smiles and reaches out to him from inside the cage.

Harsh sudden claws dig into Peter’s shoulders, dragging him away from the cage, throwing him to the ground and he looks up and sees Deucalion, angry and older with blood red eyes and a smirk, a large black cloak covering him from neck to feet.

Deucalion-in-the-cage continues smiling benignly at Peter uncaring of his plight.

Deucalion-outside-the-cage grabs Peter by the back of the neck and drags him away from both cages down a dark hall lined with still more cages all shrouded in black linen.

Peter begins to struggle as Deucalion drags him towards a cage with an open door, but he cannot break Deucalion’s hold and he is thrown into the cage, soft with a carpet of ashes.

Deucalion follows him, closing the barred door behind him. The click of the latch catching on the lock is deafening. Peter scrambles into a corner as Deucalion moves. He removes the black cloak to reveal a dark, oily, amorphous mass clinging to his back and sides, covering his eyes with sticky, inky tendrils.

Demon.

Deucalion opens his mouth to-

______________________________________________________________

Peter wakes up with a start as his alarm rings out next to him. He shakes his head and crawls out of the bed and taps the phone. He’s sweated all over the sheets; Deucalion will know for sure that he’s slept here. Peter sighs. At least Deucalion won’t catch him in the bed.

His headache hasn’t improved at all and as he stands he sways, just a little light headed.

Well. It seems like a good time to pay a visit to young Stiles.

Peter walks to the Stilinski residence, not up to running. He's hardly up to walking. It's not the sleep deprivation so much as it's combination with the hunger, which has reached a level of conscious, constant, sucking emptiness in his gut and, at seemingly random intervals, intense pain just under the ribcage.

The sheriff is not there when he arrives, thankfully, but Stiles is, judging by the scents around the house and the beloved Jeep, so Peter walks up and rings the bell. Stiles does not appear and doesn't sound like he's moving. Peter rings the doorbell again, twice in quick succession.

Finally there is movement from upstairs and Peter waits patiently as Stiles comes barreling down the stairs and flings open the door. He looks surprised to see Peter as his mouth hangs open and confusion sets in.

Peter smirks, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Stiles' expression takes on a hardness and an opaqueness that he reserves only for Peter, "I dunno. What are you doing here?"

"I am here," Peter replies, starting to walk through the door and, as he predicted, Stiles makes way for his advance regardless of his lack of invitation. "to teach you a few things and to have you pass information to Derek."

Stiles glares for a moment as they stand in the hallway. Peter waits.

Stiles sighs, a heavy frustrated sigh, and says, "Fine, come on." and he starts up the stairs presumably to his bedroom which seems a somewhat odd venue for the situation, but he supposes it's the most private place for a teenager trying to hide the existence of werewolves from his sheriff father.

Halfway up the stairs Stiles turns back at him and says, with an odd frozen expression, "Did you, uh..." he hesitates, "Do you want any food?"

Peter laughs at the awkwardness Stiles is clearly experiencing, "No, but thank you." he says chuckling, "That's very thoughtful." and he follows an angrily blushing Stiles up to his room.

The boy throws himself onto his bed when they arrive so Peter gingerly takes the office chair, collapsing carefully onto it with a sigh that's half relief and half pain. His headache is getting progressively worse.

"Dude." the boy says, "You look like shit."

Peter can't help but give him a mock offended tisk at the blunt statement. "Rude." he says. "And after I came all the way over here to teach you some important lessons."

Stiles snorts, "You're gonna 'teach me a lesson', huh?"

Peter pouts, "Well if you're going to be ungrateful about it..."

Stiles rolls his eyes and Peter hides a small smile. This is why Stiles is his favorite. No one else will play with him at all. Even when the boy is terrified and, given that he's only a human with no training in the supernatural at all, he has every right to be terrified, but he's still sharp as a tack and giving it his all. He doesn't take things so seriously.

"In any case," Peter covers a yawn, "I'm here to tell you about hagstones, because they're about to become very relevant. I'll teach you more later, if you like. I don't know why Deaton won't teach you himself. It seems irresponsible to me."

Stiles snorts again, "Right. Deaton is the irresponsible one."

Now Peter is the one rolling his eyes, "In any case, if you want to be involved with the supernatural these are things you should know."

Stiles throws his hands into the air in exasperated surrender. "Lay it on me." he says.

Peter nods, "I assume Deaton told you about the darach."

Stiles nods, "Evil druid, dark oak, bad news, yeah he told us, although we had pretty much figured all of that out and the rest doesn't seem super relevant."

"It's very relevant." Peter says, "There are lots of different types of magic users out there. What works against one won't work against another."

Stiles shrugs. "So what's the magic bullet against a darach."

Peter frowns and massages his temples briefly, "Darach's are...dark druids, so anything you could use against a druid you can use against a darach, except for the dark counter-actions, obviously. And since darachs are dark you can use anything that is effective against darkness. So salt, for example, is a weak deterrent for dark forces."

Peter shakes his head to clear it. He's getting off topic and he needs to be quick, "It doesn't really matter until we have the hagstone."

"Right. Hagstones." Stiles says as Peter hunches over in pain, hunger kicking in full force for a moment, "Are you sure you're ok?"

Peter nods and straightens up a little. It's probably good that he's only able to meet with Stiles. Stiles probably won't mention the extent of Peter's state to the rest of the pack in any detail because he hates Peter. Vulnerability isn't something he wants to just share with everyone willy nilly, sharing with Stiles is an unfortunate necessity.

Peter gives Stiles a shaky grin and shakes his head, "Don't worry your pretty little head about me." Being over familiar tends to make people back off.

Stiles gives him a disgusted look, just as Peter had planned, and Peter continues with the lesson, giving Stiles the definition and origin of the artifact in question. "You have a spark so you'll be able to use it fairly easily. Just look through the hole and focus on the stone however you like. If I'm holding it I usually focus on the texture or the shape." Peter adds.

For all that Stiles finds Peter utterly repulsive he's certainly paying close attention to his teaching, which is gratifying since usually everyone ignores his suggestions.

"The alphas are going to buy a hagstone of dichroic glass. The attributes of the material can contribute to the power of the object. Dichroic glass has truth and clarity qualities, which is why it makes such a good material for a hagstone. You wouldn't want to use a material with obscuring properties for a hagstone, but you might use them in an invisibility rune."

"Ok." Stiles interrupts abruptly after a continuous rapt silence, "When do we learn about invisibility runes?"

Peter grins. Ah, Stiles is a boy after his own heart, that's for sure. "Later. Now pay attention." he says with an ironic yawn. "Where were we?" he says sleepily. The headache is a bit fuzzier now and the hunger cramps have subsided for now, but without the pain it's harder to stay awake.

Stiles just gives him a shrewd look. “You want some coffee?" he asks bluntly.

Peter blinks. Coffee would probably be a very good idea. He hasn't had any since before his nap. "Yes, if it's not any trouble."

Stiles shrugs off the concern and gestures with a shoulder that Peter should follow him.

Peter stands and as his vision starts to fade out, he braces himself on the edge of the desk until it clears.

Stiles is staring at him with a hard suspicious look.

Peter chuckles lightly and says, "Low blood pressure. Stood up too fast."

The kitchen is old but homely and there is a well loved coffee machine in the corner which Stiles sets about making use of.

"Any preference?" Stiles asks, presumably in reference to type of coffee.

"Whatever has the most caffeine." Peter replies, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs as Stiles busies himself, "So, the hagstone will get here in a few days, probably three or four. After that I'll be able to use it to find out who the darach is. Once we know that..." Peter pauses and hums thoughtfully, "I'm not sure what Deucalion will do, actually, but at least you'll all be able to stay out of the way. The longer we wait the the higher the odds that Derek bumbles unwittingly into its evil arms." he finishes bitterly.

Peter inhales the scent of freshly brewing coffee and sighs. It smells like a very good blend and even if it is the worst coffee in the world as long as it's strong Peter will be grateful.

Peter opens his eyes and is surprised to see Stiles sitting across from him. He hadn't heard him sit down. The boy is staring at Peter with a shrewd stony expression. They sit like that for a moment, Peter can't think of anything to say, but Stiles breaks the silence.

"So, not eating and not sleeping."

Peter sighs and looks away. Then with a chagrined smile he turns back to Stiles, "I should have known I couldn't hide it from you." he shrugs and oh well, "Yes, eating and sleeping and I'm not allowed to see pack, of course."

There's a flash of hurt that plays across Stiles' face but it's gone quickly and the shrewd young man is back, "So I'm not part of the pack." he says stonily, as if Peter had just confirmed some suspicion of his. and Peter suddenly understands.

"It's just semantics." he says, trying to comfort the boy, "I choose not to interpret you as pack in this case because if I did I wouldn't be able to speak with you."

Stiles' expression doesn't change and he seems to be focusing on his own thoughts rather than Peter's words.

Peter frowns, "Only a fool wouldn't consider you part of Scott's pack." he says bluntly, "And I believe Derek, if he took a moment to actually use his head, would consider you part of his pack, although Scott's about to make things a bit more complicated."

Stiles is snapped out of his revery at that, "Yeah, you said something last time about Scott calling you and Derek said he wasn't an alpha. What did that mean?"

Peter shifts in his chair, "Coffee's done." he says, eager to get some caffeine into his system. Stiles shoots him a suspicious look, as if to say don't try to change the subject, "If I'm right," Peter continues, "Scott will become what is called a True Alpha. He'll become an alpha in his own right without having to kill another alpha to steal the power." Peter takes the steaming mug that Stiles offers him, "It's very rare." he adds.

Stiles nods. "So." he says, "Dichroic glass hagstone is going to tell us who the darach is. I could use one, but I won't be getting my hands on this one. Once we know who the darach is we can take action, but we don't know what that action is. Have I got everything?"

Peter cocks his head, "Yup. That's about it." he says taking a sip from his coffee. "And you'll have to be my contact with the pack from now on. You can get my number from Derek. I assume you have his number?"

Stiles blushes, just ever so slightly, and nods. Peter hides a smirk.

"Well." Peter says. He's only halfway through his coffee, which he's taken black this time. There's really no point anymore in trying to stave off hunger with sugar and milk. "I should get going."

"Yeah." Stiles says, but something in him is hesitating. Still, he walks Peter to the front door before he says anything.

“Are you…” Stiles huffs a sigh, “Listen, I’m only asking ‘cause Derek is freaking out. He won’t say anything, but he’s...I don’t know if worried is the right word, but...he’d feel bad if you got hurt. So...” Stiles gives an awkward shrug and avoids looking at Peter, “If you need help or if you’re in trouble…” Stiles is practically stuttering over trying to express concern for Peter. Peter smirks as Stiles starts over.

“Look.” he begins, “The pack is like...headquarters, ok? And you’re like our double agent, right? But I’m like the case officer, so basically you’re the secret agent and I’m your handler.”

Peter just looks at him, amused at the analogy, which doesn’t seem to be the reaction Stiles wanted.

“So.” Stiles says with emphasis, “I’m in charge of making sure you can do the job and that includes making sure you don’t die of starvation or sleep deprivation.”

“You can’t die of sleep deprivation, technically.” Peter adds unhelpfully.

“My point is I’m invested in keeping you going, so if you need to...whatever,” and he flails a bit presumably to illustrate the open endedness of his offer, “just come here.”

Peter can’t quite hide his amused smile, “Understood.” he simply replies. Stiles’ ability to sublimate his own emotions to do what is necessary is another reason he’s Peter’s favorite. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Stiles nods tightly and Peter exits. It strikes Peter often that Stiles would make an incredible werewolf, but he’s never been more grateful that he’s human than now. Keeping the clever young man as the card up their sleeve is much more effective. Plus, of course, there’s a good chance the Stiles would challenge for alpha position and take it without much difficulty. In a few years, with a bit more knowledge and experience under his belt, Stiles would have been an alpha Peter would be proud to serve, but what with the presence of two alphas soon pack dynamics are going to get a bit messy.  
But all that is moot. His alpha is Deucalion now and not even a clever future werewolf version of Stiles could change that.


	12. In Which Peter Gives in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy! ;) I certainly did! Next chapter the plot advances!
> 
> This chapter's comment theme is: Line (or a few sentences) that you thought was funniest, dialogue or not.
> 
> Oh and the fanart is coming along slowly. Deucalion's face is really just...I don't know, there's just something about his face specifically. But I'll get there someday.

Peter trudges home slowly. He feels awful. It’s obvious from the way he’s almost staggering as he walks, the way his mind wanders unable to focus, the way giving in seems so logical and so reasonable, that he can’t go on disobeying Deucalion for much longer. And it’s only early afternoon. Peter sighs.

Now that he knows the darach is what Deucalion’s after, well, he’s pretty ok with that agenda, so giving in to Deucalion’s minor demands doesn’t seem so sinister. Of course, that’s how the descent into complete slavish servitude starts. For someone like him with someone like Deucalion that becomes a slippery slope.

Still, he’d known from the beginning that he wouldn’t be able to resist forever. He has to eat sometime and sleep eventually. He’s beginning to be ineffective at following even his own agenda and allowing himself to become physically and mentally vulnerable by way of starvation and sleep deprivation won’t really be beneficial at all.

He’ll wait a little while anyway, just a little bit longer.

In any case, he thinks as he unlocks the door to the apartment and scents the air, Deucalion isn’t even home yet. In the meantime Peter sits at the dining room table, foregoing the comfortable couch in favor of trying to stay awake. He watches a cooking show for a while on his laptop because he thinks he can’t possibly be hungrier. When this becomes too difficult to concentrate on he moves to english tv adaptations of Dickens novels and similar original works. After that he moves to playing solitaire. Over and over.

He doesn’t win a single game before Deucalion gets home at nearly midnight. At this point the games of solitaire have mainly devolved into more of a staring contest. Peter’s still losing.

Deucalion steps through the living room glancing at Peter and entering the bedroom. Peter hardly notices.

“You slept.” Peter would have jumped at Deucalion’s sudden statement if his reflexes weren’t so dulled by exhaustion. Deucalion is right behind him.

“What?” Peter asks dully.

“You slept while I was out.” he says putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“You said I had to sleep in your bed.” Peter says letting his exhaustion color his voice with confusion.

Deucalion looks frustrated, almost angry and his fingers grow claws, just barely not pricking Peter’s shoulder. Peter cringes and Deucalion abruptly releases his shoulder.

“Why must you make this so difficult? You must know that starving yourself and not sleeping isn’t going to help your cause, unless your cause is pure martyrdom. Wouldn’t you like to be at top form to enact your schemes?” Deucalion tries to persuade him.

“You’re the one demanding that I sit at your feet and eat from your hand and I’m the one making things difficult.” Peter says sarcastically.

Deucalion scoffs, “They’re token gestures of your submission to me, your alpha.” he growls.

“Well, how about instead of treating me like a pet I just wear a t-shirt with your face on it.” Peter replies tartly, “And if they’re such token gestures why bother with them at all?”

“Because I am your alpha and you will obey me.” he says, grabbing Peter by the front of his shirt and lifting him up. “If I tell you to strip naked and walk into the desert until your feet bleed you don’t ask me what point it will serve.” Deucalion slams his body down onto the table, “You obey without question.”

Peter cringes and pants under Deucalion’s grip. His power is staggering and Peter finds it difficult to breathe in the presence of his fury. He’s flat on his back, his lower half dangling off the table with Deucalion pressing him onto it.

“If you wanted a slave,” Peter says slowly, “you wouldn’t have chosen me to be your beta.”

Deucalion presses him harder against the table for a moment and he winces but then Deucalion lets out a frustrated chuckle, “If had known how much trouble you would be I wouldn’t have chosen you to be my beta.”

Peter grins weakly, “That’s a lie.”

“Perhaps.” Deucalion says and lets up on Peter. “But it doesn’t change things. You must either obey me and return to full strength to, perhaps, follow your own agenda as well as mine and don’t pretend you don’t have ulterior motives, I know you better than that, or, you can continue to starve yourself and remain useless to everyone.”

“False choice.” Peter says before his sleep deprived brain can stop him.

Deucalion gives him a quizzical look.

“False choice.” Peter repeats regretfully, “It’s a logical fallacy. You’ve presented me with an either-or choice that isn’t an accurate representation of the situation. I have plenty of options that aren’t either of the ones you stated.” Peter shrugs, “Once you know what a false choice is you see them everywhere.” He pauses, “Sorry I just, uh…”

Peter sighs heavily. He’s just lying on a dining room table spewing out facts about logical fallacies. He may have to admit defeat at this point. His head is pounding and he can’t think. The adrenaline spike of having an alpha at his throat is fading fast and he feels like he’s going to just slide off the table into a puddle.

Deucalion shakes his head in bemused amazement and reaches out to gently brush his knuckles across Peter’s cheek. “You never cease to amaze me, Peter. I would hate to have to break that spirit. Why won’t you submit to me?” he says, bending close, voice low and intimate. “It will feel so good. I promise.” he hums in Peter’s ear.

Peter can hardly breathe. Deucalion is so close and so warm and so strong and Peter is so tired. Deucalion is stroking his hair and neck and Peter is frozen in the conundrum of choice.

“Come on, Peter.” Deucalion says and pulls Peter to his feet. He can tell that Peter won’t resist. Perhaps he’s not quite able to say yes, but he isn’t saying no. It’s not quite the victory Peter wanted but it’s a good enough compromise that they’ll both settle.

Deucalion releases Peter and Peter suddenly realizes that he hasn’t stood up or moved at all for the past few hours until he was thrown to the table by his alpha and the blood rushes away from his head and his vision starts to black out and, out of instinct, he grabs the closest thing he can reach to keep himself upright: Deucalion.

It’s not a terribly smart idea to grab an alpha without warning especially given the slight tussle just moments before and Peter finds himself on the floor several feet away with smarting ribs. It’s a few moments before he realizes that Deucalion had lashed out in reflex. It had only been a swat by alpha standards, but for Peter, well, he’s lucky he was only pushed and not slashed.

Deucalion himself looks as surprised as Peter is to find himself suddenly displaced by several feet, but his expression, tinged slightly with contrition, quickly hardens with resolve.

“Enough.” Deucalion commands and strides over to Peter who scrambles backwards in his own reflexive response to Deucalion’s sudden advance. Deucalion pauses for a moment, struck by Peter’s fearful reaction, conscious or not. He seems disappointed, maybe even guilty, but he quickly shakes off whatever it is and continues forward to kneel at Peter’s side. He slides an arm around him, hefts Peter up and guides him to the kitchen in a similar fashion. He places Peter firmly on a stool at the island and gives him a cursory, “Stay.”

Peter’s not going anywhere.

He rests his head against the counter and waits for Deucalion to do whatever it is he’s doing. If he doesn’t hurry Peter’s just going to go to sleep here.

And he must have fallen asleep because he’s jarred awake by Deucalion, “Here, come on, Peter.” and he’s maneuvered unwillingly to his feet once again.

“Just leave me here.” Peter says blearily. The counter is comfortable enough when you’re unconscious.

“Really, Peter.” Deucalion scoffs and then sighs, “I don’t know why you insisted on letting things get this far.” he says as he supports Peter on the way to the bedroom. “Sleep deprivation and starvation aren’t going to help your nephew’s pack or you or whatever agenda it is you’re working on now.”

Peter hums in response as he catches sight of the bed. Nothing else matters.

Once Deucalion brings him close enough he flops down on the bed face first and is content to close his eyes and go completely limp. He vaguely hears Deucalion huff in frustration.

“Turn over, Peter.” he commands, but maneuvers Peter himself, which is just fine with Peter. Then Deucalion is getting in bed with him and moving Peter between the v of his legs so that Peter is reclining against his chest, just like in the bathtub. Deucalion must like this position Peter muses. Peter doesn’t mind it himself. Deucalion is comfortable and warm.

“Drink this.” Deucalion says, as he presses a glass of water into Peter’s boneless hand. Peter manages to get a grip on it and brings it to his lips to drink slowly. He’s not thirsty, really, and he doesn’t want water. He wants food. He wants to sleep.

The glass is lifted gently from his fingers. “Here.” Deucalion says softly in his ear, “Open your mouth.”

Peter opens and is rewarded with a piece of toast covered in sweet jelly and butter. The flavor is so sudden and bright that it almost hurts at first and his mouth begins to water uncontrollably. He can’t help but let out a quiet moan. There is a contented chuckle behind him, which he ignores.

He chews slowly, savoring the flavor and then swallows, opening his mouth preemptively for another piece. Deucalion obliges him with another small morsel of toast. It’s just as good as the last one, although he doesn’t spend quite so much time savoring it. Eventually his stomach kicks in, with a final, painful warning to never do this again, but it doesn’t keep him from continuing to swallow every piece Deucalion feeds him and eventually the pain fades completely. Deucalion feeds him delicately, small bits at a time and strokes his side with the free arm that encircles Peter and holds him close.

And Deucalion is very much enjoying the situation, of course, sitting behind Peter and humming with smug delight at every moan pulled from Peter’s lips. That’s alright. Peter will give him these ridiculous tokens of submission, as Deucalion called them. It can only help his case when he inevitably has to disobey a more serious rule. Now that he’s given in and moved past playing unwilling hostage he’ll start playing the sycophant and he might as well start now. At the next offering of toast he swallows quickly and licks Deucalion’s fingers clean of jelly before they can retreat. Deucalion’s grip on him tightens just then and Peter smirks. At least he didn’t have to eat while sitting on the floor at Deucalion’s feet.

At last the toast is gone and Peter feels surprisingly full. Deucalion gives him the water again, waits until he finishes it and then extracts himself from Peter and the bed. Peter opens his eyes and peers up at Deucalion who is looking down at him with a serious and seemingly conflicted expression.

They gaze carefully at each other for a moment before Peter tips his chin back, just slightly and bares his neck for Deucalion, which seems to snap him out of his reveries. Deucalion takes the dishes and heads for the door.

“Get ready for bed, Peter. You’ll sleep with me in my bed from now on.” he says.

Peter grins slightly in answer and Deucalion leaves.

Peter only bothers to remove his pants and shirt before crawling under the sheets and back into the bed. He falls asleep before Deucalion even returns.


	13. In Which Breakfast is Incendiary

Peter wakes up warm and cradled tight in the arms of his alpha. It's...nice. It's really nice. The nicest part about it is to be somewhat clear headed finally. He's still quite hungry, not painfully, though, which is also nice.

Deucalion breathes evenly behind him and Peter sighs. He hadn't meant to be so...accommodating when it came to giving in to the rules. Of course he was going to give in, but he didn't have to drape himself all over Deucalion and lick jelly off his fingers while sitting practically in his lap. What had he been thinking?

Well, now it was time to determine whether this is an in for a penny, in for a pound situation or whether he should go back to grudging pseudo-obedience.

Deucalion snuffles sleepily against the back of his neck and shifts closer to Peter in his sleep. It makes Peter smile, just slightly.

So he'll definitely be going back to the grudging obedience. The one thing he cannot do is allow himself to enjoy Deucalion's rule. If that happens then soon after it will be following Deucalion's agenda and then working with Deucalion and then working on his behalf and then, perhaps, even trusting him, which is the worst possible outcome of them all.

Then, of course, there's the demon situation, which hardly makes any of this easier. Even if the Deucalion Peter had known had somehow turned into a homicidal lunatic and had won Peter's trust as a beta, well, that would be a stunning and uncomfortable turn of events. But if Deucalion really is possessed, how can Peter justify submitting to the husk of a man he once liked and respected especially given that possessions are generally not voluntary, to say the least.

It feels very much like a betrayal.

Peter shifts in the bed, rolling a little further away from Deucalion. Deucalion doesn't react. At all. Could it be that, after Peter's submission last night, Deucalion trusts him? Not intellectually, but perhaps on the instinctual alpha-beta level.

Peter pauses for a moment in thought. If that's the case then perhaps it would be more beneficial to continue to submit willingly. Peter shifts further, just testing, holding his breath. Deucalion is relaxed, breathing evenly, face slack; he is deeply asleep.

Peter eases out of bed watching Deucalion every moment until he slides triumphantly to the floor.

He suppresses the urge to do a fist pump in the air because that might disturb Deucalion and he is not a teenager, so he won't act like one. Peter pads quietly into the kitchen idly noting that he's been undressed in his sleep and redressed in a pair of Deucalion's cotton pajama pants, which disturbingly doesn't surprise or alarm him as much as it probably should. They're quite comfortable really, well worn and stretchy.

He pauses in the kitchen, tapping a hand on the counter. He can't eat until Deucalion wakes up, but he can wake Deucalion up himself. That's an appealing thought. However, if he cooks food now and then wakes Deucalion up, well, given that it's the morning and Deucalion always liked his cooking, it's likely that he'll just go along with whatever Peter has cooked.

And Peter is craving french toast. Hopefully Deucalion has some good, sweet bread hidden away somewhere and Peter's nearly certain he'll have eggs and milk.

Peter's in a great mood. He's not tired anymore. He's making french toast, Deucalion is on his way to being wrapped around Peter's finger, which Peter had not anticipated at all, so it's even better news than he thought possible. He had anticipated being only able to work around Deucalion, not with him. Ah, it's a good day.

It's almost an hour later that Deucalion wanders into the kitchen. Peter casually ushers him to a stool and places a mug of freshly brewed tea in front of him. Then a large dish with a pile of scrumptious looking cinnamon french toast, a bowl full of fresh quartered strawberries and a smaller dipping bowl full of maple syrup.

Then Peter discards the apron, still wearing only Deucalion's pajama bottoms, and kneels by the side of the stool at his feet.

Deucalion cocks his head, not bothering to hide his surprise. "Good morning to you, too." he says.

"Yes, yes, Good morning. I'm hungry." he says quickly and opens his mouth petulantly.

"Mm." Deucalion merely hums in acknowledgement. He surveys the meal and and picks a red strawberry from the bowl and examines it, smiling. "You always were a bit of a hedonist, Peter."

Peter shrugs. "I like to enjoy life."

Deucalion hums again and brings the morsel of strawberries to Peter's lips. Peter allows his tongue to dart out and curl around the strawberry, before letting his lips encompass the fruit, gently brushing against the pads of Deucalion's fingers.

Deucalion gives him a look and says, "And after you were so offended by the thought of eating out of my hand."

Peter shrugs, "I don't adjust as quickly as I used to. Besides," he says with a mischievous grin, "anything worth doing is worth doing right."

"And the right way to eat out of someone's hand is..." Deucalion searches for a word but Peter beats him to it.

"Sensually." he says, as if it's obvious, "If you're going to eat out of someone's hand it had better be sensual."

"Really." Deucalion says, feeding Peter another strawberry, this time prepared for the snaking tongue and nibbling lips "So you're only eating from my hand sensually because it's the right thing to do in this situation."

"What can I say?" Peter says, "I'm a true connoisseur of all things. Especially etiquette." He grins wolfishly.

Deucalion rolls his eyes and takes another sip of tea, "Of course you are."

Peter smirks as Deucalion tries a piece of the french toast. Deucalion can't hide the smile and enjoyment of the delicious breakfast confection.

"It's good, isn't it." Peter preens.

"You always were a good cook." Deucalion muses nostalgically. He has a far off expression like he's looking at memories of their past together. Peter frowns.

"Well, I'd certainly like to confirm that." Peter says, again bringing attention to the fact that he hasn't actually had any of the french toast yet.

Deucalion blinks and looks down at Peter. "Yes, of course." Deucalion picks a piece of french toast, swirls it in the syrup and brings it to Peter's open mouth, waiting for Peter to lick the syrup off his fingers, as usual. Peter does, with relish. He's always been glad that he's a wolf just for managing his sweet tooth, if nothing else. The french toast is perfect; crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside. Peter's eyes roll back and he savors the bite. Everything has tasted better recently, given that he's been so hungry.

Deucalion hums in satisfaction at seeing Peter's pleasure and Peter wonders if this isn't the real reason Deucalion wanted to feed him by hand, but that's silly. It's certainly more about control than anything else.

They continue to eat, Deucalion alternating between feeding himself and feeding Peter and between strawberries and french toast. It takes longer and, while Peter might get impatient ordinarily, he's still kind of just happy to be eating and it's not as though he has anything else to do.

Finally he's about full and Deucalion offers one last piece, dripping with syrup, but instead of holding it still for Peter to take from his hand, he moves it at the last moment, smearing syrup across Peter's lips and chin.

"Oh dear." Deucalion says and Peter sits in momentary surprise. That had been quite unexpected.

Then Deucalion is kneeling next to him and grasping his now sticky chin and he's moving closer to Peter, to kiss him, Peter thinks. Deucalion is going to kiss him, so Peter was right. He could easily seduce Deucalion and then perhaps bend him to his will and Deucalion is just a breath away and-

Peter is surprised to find himself shoving Deucalion hard, falling on his ass and scrambling backwards quickly.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands in a breathy voice.

Deucalion has hardly moved, Peter's push being mostly ineffective against an alpha of his strength, but it had certainly surprised them both.

"What am I doing?" Deucalion says slowly, with practiced calm, advancing on Peter who is in sandwiched in the corner of the kitchen cabinets. "You are the one licking syrup from my fingers like a..." he stops, choked off.

"Like what?" Peter annunciates venomously. "Like a slave? Like your beta?" Peter sneers. "Do you think this is fun for me?"

Deucalion looks almost stricken for a fraction of a moment, then expression flattens and hardens.

"Of course." Deucalion says and rises, striding quickly to the door of the kitchen. He turns back abruptly and Peter freezes, sure that he's about to be punished, but Deucalion doesn't return.

He simply says, "The hagstone arrives today. We were able to get one before the auction. I'll be back at three. Be ready to work." and then he leaves the apartment, slamming the door as he goes.

Peter takes a few moments to allow his heart rate to slow after blatantly insulting his crazy alpha. He gets up from the floor, leaning on the counter, bewildered by the sudden change in atmosphere. Then he slams his fist down on the counter twice.

Then he sighs and hangs his head. What a stupid, monumentally stupid thing to do.

Well, damage done. It turns out he won't be playing the sycophant for a while yet. He takes a few calming breaths.

The hagstone's arrival, at least, is good news. It's going to change the game.

It has to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK GUYS. HERE IS THE ART. I HOPE IT IS EVERYTHING YOU HOPED IT WOULD BE.  
> Also, confession time: I totally traced the faces. No shame. Consider it a painterly-photo manip type hybrid.
> 
> Anyway. I hope you guys like it and like the chapter and more soon.
> 
> Also! Updates may be slower (as they have been recently, sorry about that) because I have a rather ambitious Halloween Costume underway and the Halloween party it is for is on the 25th not the thirtieth. And also, I'm hoping (probably in vain now that I think about it) to have this finished by nanowrimo. If not, it may be a scarce month for November as far as updates go for this story :) But I'll do my best!
> 
> And the comment theme is: what is your biggest pet peeve with Teen Wolf so far in terms of consistency and canon. (Mine is basically all of visionary, but mostly the stupid aging thing. Was that really necessary? What was the point?)


	14. In Which Peter Makes Another Ally...Sort of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so laaaate!! :O  
> I've been reading a lot of Chris/Peter recently (frankly my otp for TW) which actually made it slightly difficult to write this chapter in particular. You'll see why ;)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! :)
> 
> Oh! and just for reference dichroic glass looks pretty psychedelic. :P It's hilariously tacky to imagine Peter having anything made of the stuff. I recommend googling it.

Deucalion returns in a few hours his expression hard and inscrutable. Peter keeps well out of his way, retreating to the guest room. He even thinks about apologizing because having Deucalion actively angry at him puts him and Derek’s pack in a very precarious position.

But only a few moments after Deucalion arrives there is a knock on the door and Kali enters. Peter watches Deucalion and Kali walk past the guest room with trepidation. They stop by the doorway. Kali looks at him like he is an insect, perhaps an interesting or entertaining insect, but he’s still just a bug.

“Come, Peter.” Deucalion calls him like he’s a dog. Peter frowns but doesn’t protest since he’s already pushed his luck this morning.

They end up, unsurprisingly, in the living room on the comfortable couch. Well, Deucalion and Kali sit on the couch and Peter slowly eases to his knees on the floor beside Deucalion. He’s more fearful than indignant at this point. Having his back to Deucalion is ordinarily slightly uncomfortable but now he is painfully aware of Deucalion’s anger and the experience becomes terrifying. Still, obedience is the safest path at this point.

He settles into place reluctantly and sucks in a quick breath when Deucalion places a heavy hand on the back of his neck. Peter is tense, only able to take shallow breaths as claws tease the nape of his neck, just scraping harmlessly across the throat.

Peter tries not to shudder, tries to stay very still under Deucalion’s claws. Kali raises an eyebrow at the interaction but wordlessly slides a small gift box across the table.

Deucalion opens the box and draws out a beautiful hagstone, iridescent, shimmering glass with an average eye-sized hole, which is convenient. The ones with really small holes are kind of a pain. It’s really a stunning specimen and in his sudden reverence Peter almost forgets about the claws at this throat.

Deucalion examines the hagstone with mild interest. He puts it up to his eye, but without a spark he won’t see anything different. He glances down at Peter who quickly looks away, another subtle acknowledgement of Deucalion’s dominance. But Deucalion’s hand appears in his line of vision holding the hagstone out to him.

Peter reaches for it hesitantly, glancing at Deucalion for assurance. Deucalion’s gaze is steady and piercing, accusatory. He takes the hagstone cautiously, carefully avoiding the touch of Deucalion’s fingers.

The hagstone is smooth and cold in his hand. He can feel the strange compelling power in it like a quiet regal confidence. Peter looks to Deucalion for permission to speak.

“Well?” Deucalion prompts him.

“It’s real.” Peter replies with some awe, “And powerful.” He should really check Deucalion for possession. Now would be the perfect opportunity to use the hagstone. There’s no reason to delay. They’re both right there. But he hesitates.

What if Deucalion isn’t possessed? What if this is just what life has done to him? Peter doesn’t know which would be worse. Spending years and years possessed, trapped and twisted by something that isn’t you or to become that twisted thing truly in and of yourself.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to hide his reaction either way so he waits. He might be able to attribute a sudden rush of emotion to their...misunderstanding this morning if it was just him and Deucalion. He doesn’t know Kali well enough to guess whether she’ll notice a reaction from him or care to figure out what had elicited them.

So he’ll wait until they’re alone at least before he looks.

“If anything will work, this will.” Peter finishes, looking up for guidance.

Deucalion ignores him so he assumes he’s supposed to keep it, which is what he expected given that the alphas can’t use it themselves.

“The boys are going on that ridiculous field trip tonight, correct?”

Kali nods, her usual fierce expression tinged with perhaps amusement.

“Make sure you know where they are and keep in contact. We move as soon as we find the darach.”

Kali nods and then suddenly Deucalion’s attention is focused on Peter again. “What are you still doing here?” he snarls at Peter who, to his embarrassment flinches and shrinks away. “Go find the darach.”

Peter flees without shame. He grabs his coat and gets out of the apartment, glad to be off his leash. He’s been restless, cooped up and chastised.

He finally feels like he can breathe when he makes it outside at last. He runs first, just to feel free, to feel the blood pulsing through, to feel alive.

He supposes he should hole up in a coffee shop somewhere and just people watch. He doesn’t really have any leads so he’s just going to have to look for the darach the old fashioned way: looking.

He decides to check in with the Stilinski boy first. That’s almost always entertaining and there’s the very very slight chance that they’ll have an idea who the darach is. It’s early evening; school is out, but Stiles is nowhere to be found, neither at his own home or Scott’s. Scott isn’t home either.

Peter shrugs and moves on to a coffee shop in the downtown area. Perhaps the field trip Kali had mentioned was a school trip. That would at least partially explain her smirking expression when she mentioned it, although somehow Peter doesn’t think the alpha twins are as indignant about attending high school as she thinks they are.

He orders a coffee, since he doesn’t get much coffee at Deucalion’s and takes a table near the window facing away from the rest of the shop so he can watch the passersby. He’ll see anyone approaching him in the reflection in the glass anyway. It’s a bit difficult to be subtle about putting a large multicolored stone amulet up to your eye to look through but Peter hopes he pulls off a sort of absent minded fiddling. In any case it’s sure to be more subtle than anything the others could pull off, the alphas or Derek’s packmembers.

A few hours and refills later and Peter has unsurprisingly had no luck in fortuitously running across the darach.

He thinks about moving locations or at least getting a pastry and another coffee when the door to the coffee shop chimes and he gets a whiff of a very familiar and not at all welcome scent.

He hopes, no doubt vainly, that Argent won’t notice him and will pass him by but, of course, no such luck. The man takes a seat across from him without a word. Beacon Hills has always been a small town in that way. You run into people.

Argent is quiet, sipping his black coffee with a slightly menacing air.Peter ignores him. He doesn’t really have anything to say to Argent so he’ll wait for Argent to speak his piece. Meanwhile he goes back to fiddling with the hagstone and looking for the darach, person by person. He sighs. There has to be a better way of doing this.

Argent finally speaks, “Allison tells me that you think I’m a solid tactician but that I’m lacking in, what was it, information gathering skills?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and gives him a challenging look.

“I took it to heart.” Chris continues.

“I’m...gratified to hear that, I suppose.” Peter offers, slightly confused, though he’s happily conscious of the fact that the door is right behind him if he needs to make a hasty retreat.

Chris gives him a smirk, “I’m here to gather information.” he clarifies, “From the source.” Argent leans in across the table and his voice hushes. He smells like gun oil and books, a surprisingly pleasant combination, “The sacrifices, the alpha pack, the animal deaths, it’s all connected. I want to know how.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Well he had told Derek to get Chris on their side and he’s sure he’ll make a better case than Derek, but still, if there’s anyone who should be invested in influencing Chris’ opinion it’s his daughter who, incidentally, knows the answers to all of Chris’ questions. Peter has to call him out on it.

“Why don’t you ask your daughter? You must know that she’s getting involved.” he says. He is genuinely confused and intrigued. From what he’s seen the father and daughter are far from estranged. How could they be? They’re each all the other has left.

But Argent grinds his teeth and looks away growling, reminding Peter again what an amazing wolf Chris would be. He’s already a natural hunter, has incredible will power and intense loyalty within reason. What more could anyone want in a wolf?

“We agreed to stay out of anymore supernatural squabbles.” Chris admits gruffly and Peter barks a laugh.

“But neither of you can bear not to meddle and you won’t admit it to each other.” Peter shakes his head still chuckling at Chris’ obvious discomfort. “You know there’s an easy solution to this. Just confess and then give the children some damn self defense lessons.”

“I made her promise me no more because I didn’t want her to become a soldier.” Chris growls at him.

Peter sneers, “Do you think I’m on the frontlines of this conflict because I think risking my life is fun?” he spits. “I’m not anymore interested in child soldiers than you are. I said,” he repeats firmly, “to teach them some self defense.”

They glare at each other for a few minutes, each calming slightly. Chris looks away first.

“I think she suspects me of being involved somehow.” He finally admits.

Peter is dumbfounded, “She thinks you’re the darach?” There aren’t words for how utterly laughable that is. Still, Peter puts the hagstone up to his eye and looks at Chris finding him to be, once and for all, just plain human.

“Is that what’s doing this?” Chris asks keenly.

“I asked you first.” Peter says crossing his arms over his chest. Chris gives a frustrated eye roll and his fists clench on the table.

“She thinks I might be involved with sacrifices, if that’s what you’re asking.” Chris replies.

Peter shakes his head, “Well, I think we can both freely admit how utterly ridiculous that is. Given that, why would your daughter think you’re ritually sacrificing people in the style of the ancient druids?” he asks incredulously.

Argent sighs and rubs his forehead, “I was investigating the sacrifices.”

“Breaking your promise.” Peter clarifies with glee.

“Yes, it broke my promise.” Chris growls, “She must have seen the notes on my desk.” he admits.

“Well, you can tell her on my authority you are not the darach.” Peter says cheekily because they both know exactly how much Peter’s word is worth to an Argent, Chris or Allison.

“What is a darach?” Chris asks, determined to get an answer and Peter figures he did wait his turn after all.

“Evil druid, basically. Earth magic, old magic that sort of thing. Hence the blood sacrifices.” Peter shrugs, “It’s not really that complicated. The complicated part is figuring out who it is. That’s what this is for.” Peter says holding up the hagstone. “It will allow me to see the true form of anyone with supernatural tendencies.”

“What is it?” Chris asks bluntly looking skeptical, but intrigued unsurprisingly. A hunter would kill to be able to identify werewolves as easily as looking at them.

Peter grins viciously, “It’s called a hagstone, but it won’t be of any use to you.” he says smugly, “You haven’t got the spark for it.”

Chris glares suspiciously, “I assume this darach is merely human and if I shot him in the head he would go down.”

“That’s my understanding.” Peter shrugs, “He’ll be human, but what other powers he’ll have are a bit of a toss up. Depends on the sacrifices and the knowledge. Headshots are pretty foolproof though.”

“You’ll tell me when you identify him.” Chris orders.

Peter just smiles, “I’m sure you’ll find out as soon as the others do.” he replies. Chris’ nostrils flare.

“And the alpha pack.” Chris continues, “I hear you’ve changed allegiances.”

“A necessary evil.” Peter replies smoothly, “The alphas aren’t your usual pack of wild dogs. They aren’t small fry and they don’t waste time terrorizing humans. All they want is the darach.”

Chris cocks his head and an expression that might be a smidgen of respect breaks through the hunter’s perpetual anger and disgust. “That’s your plan. You’re playing them against each other.”

“And I’ve taken the children out of the equation.” Peter replies with smug anger. “You might have been so useful if you weren’t so busy lying to your daughter.”

Chris smolders in anger, but it’s fair accusation and they are in a crowded coffee shop after all.

“I could use your help, though.” Peter offers, a sudden thought occurring to him.’

“What kind of help?” Chris says, not outright refusing, which is frankly an incredibly good sign.

“It’s not really an effective way to search.” Peter says, tapping the hagstone, “Just looking at everyone in town. It could take weeks before I run across the darach.”

“But there are other ways to narrow the search.” Chris replies. “You want me to look for people who are new in town.”

“See?” Peter says, “You are a solid tactician.”

Chris ignores the comment and deliberates for a long moment. “If I give you a list these people won’t be harmed. Just the darach.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “Christopher, I’ve killed my fair share of humans.” he admits, “And even I haven’t gone on a random killing spree. We only want the darach.”

Chris looks like he’s struggling not to pull out a gun and kill Peter where he sits. He clearly needs more persuading, so Peter gives him a piece of sincerity.

“I told your daughter to get you on our side.” he says, “What I meant was we’re already on the same side. All I want is to keep my people safe. I’m not asking you to forgive or to forget or to hold hands with us and sing kumbaya by the campfire. I’m asking you to do your job,” he says. “And hunt with us.”

Chris still looks angry. Peter is beginning to think that’s a perpetual state of mind, but Chris also looks contemplative. He finally moves, reaching into his jacket pocket decisively and sliding a card across the table towards Peter.

“I’ll get you the list by tomorrow.” Chris finally says, staring hard directly into Peter’s eyes. “When you find this darach you call this number.”

Peter nods and reaches for the card, but Chris grabs his wrist. They both freeze that way for a long moment, sizing each other up.

“Swear it.” Chris hisses, as though that will make him believe Peter any more.

“I swear it.” Peter says, intending to keep the promise if he can.

Chris nods and releases his hand, standing abruptly, “Then, we hunt.” he says and leaves as quickly as he’d come.

Peter watches him go. That was certainly an educational encounter he muses as he examines the business card. He contemplates for a moment and then enters the cell number on the card into his phone under the contact name ‘poo’. It’s a stretched pun, but that last thing he wants is for Deucalion to check his phone, as unlikely as that seems, and find Christopher Argent in his contact list. Anything with silver or wolf in the name will be too obvious but the connection from Christopher Argent to Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh to Peter’s sometimes embarrassingly petty sense of humor is probably obtuse enough that Deucalion won’t question it.  
And Peter can use whatever amusement he can scrape up.


	15. In Which Stiles Calls for Aid and Peter Digs Deeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh. Things are getting good now! :O
> 
> Also, yeah, the magic system in my story is a bit different from Teen Wolf's system cause well, they don't really have a declared system of any kind. And the timeline is a bit different from in the show (since Motel California happens directly after the mall scene that begins this story, so yeah. Anyway, yeah, no big deal. And, credit where credit is due, I got the idea of hex bags from Supernatural (of course).
> 
> Also, MUAHAHAHAHA CLIFFHANGER! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! EAT CANDY TIL YOU'RE SICK!!!! :D  
> Comment theme is: spookiest moment so far :D
> 
> Oh, also, how much do people care about podfics? I mean, is that a really popular thing or is it just meh?

Peter doesn’t intend to go back to the apartment until he has to. Deucalion doesn't have to know that he's got Chris working on paring down their list of suspects from 'everyone' to 'not everyone'. There's no point in wasting time just looking when he's about to be given a much shorter list. So he's off the leash and off the clock. He resists the urge to rub his hands together in glee.

He doesn't really have anything he has to do and as infuriating as just waiting can be he doesn't mind it now. It's good to just rest for a few hours.

He goes to the woods. They're on the other side of town from the apartment and the alphas and they help him feel calm. On the way he checks one of the locations that he asked Deaton to drop supplies off at and finds them exactly where he had specified along with a note that simply reads, 'be careful', which is puzzlingly vague. He wonders what details Deaton has been given.

The woods are the same as ever, the smell of trees and leaves and dirt are all so right he actually relaxes. He even finds himself smiling. He walks for a long time, deeper into the woods.

The Hale house comes into view finally. He doesn't approach it because it still smells like ashes to him and that might all be in his head, but it doesn't matter, because when he looks at it he doesn't see the husk. He sees the home.

It had been a warm, brick red. Peter had wanted blue, he recalls, but the Hale family color is unofficially red. Still it had looked good against the greens of the forest in the spring and against the white of the snow in winter it had been so warm and welcoming. Peter smiles and slides down a tree to sit and shut off his brain for a while.

He's interrupted an indeterminate amount of time later by the ringing of his phone, an unknown number. Peter briefly considers not answering, but if it's Deucalion he'll be in very deep trouble if he doesn't answer.

"Hello?" He answers mildly. He doesn't give his name in case it’s some sort of telemarketing, because last anyone knew, Peter Hale was a presumed dead kidnapped coma patient.

"Peter!" Peter winces; Stiles is practically shouting into the phone. There's a quieter, "Shit!", during which presumably Stiles is away from the phone, then he's back, "Peter?"

"Yes!" Peter barks, "It's me."

"We're at a haunted hotel." he says, which isn't exactly illuminating, "The wolves are all acting nuts!"

"Nuts how?" Peter asks, rising quickly, "Where are you?"

"They're just acting like...schizophrenic and, get this, the motel has the highest suicide rate of any hotel in California."

"Suicide?" Peter mutters as he jogs towards Stiles' home. "What is it called?"

"It’s called the Motel Glen Capri." Stiles replies, showing at least acceptable taste.

It sounds familiar, “On Route 85?” he asks, stopping suddenly.

“Yeah, I think so. Listen, I don’t think we have much time. Lydia’s hearing voices we can’t find Scott. Just get here as fast as you can.” Stiles says.

“Get there?” Peter says, “I can’t.”

“No. Ok, just get here. We have no idea what’s going on. You’re the one who’s supposed to know about this crazy magical hallucinations stuff.” Peter can almost hear Stiles’ rapid heartbeat through the phone.

“Even if I did want to risk breaking Deucalion’s rules which right now would probably get my head ripped off, do you really think my arrival in two hours wouldn’t be two hours too late?” Peter snarls into the phone. “Just stay on the line and I’ll walk you through this.”

Stiles isn’t answering. He’s just breathing. “Listen to me.” Peter says, “You can do this. You have the power to stop this. All you have to do is calm down and listen very carefully, do exactly as I say and use that magnificent brain of yours, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah ok.” Stiles mumbles.

Peter paces. “Good. Now you have Lydia and Allison, I assume.” Stiles affirms. “And the alpha twins, they’re being affected as well?”

“Yeah.” Stiles breathes. “Yeah we think so. And they have this suicide counter. It’s gone up by three.”

Peter doesn’t swear because he doesn’t want to worry Stiles. “The darach.” he says, because he’s sure Stiles has figured it out.

“Yeah.” Stiles agrees quietly. “So, how is it doing this and how do we stop it?”

“Let me think.” Peter says with a frustrated sigh. This doesn’t make any sense. The darach is sacrificing wolves, but there have to be three sacrifices. How did he know there would be more than the alpha twins? How did he know about Derek’s pack? And how does he expect them to commit suicide by the triple death? Bludgeoned, strangled and throat cut? That would be difficult to do simultaneously to someone else let alone yourself.

It would make sense if she were just trying to kill the twins and Derek’s pack was caught in the crossfire, but the counter implies the threefold sacrifice.

It doesn’t matter now. Right now they just have to solve this. Fuck, Derek’s entire pack, an alpha and the McCall boy. That’s a blow they won’t come back from.

“If you can restrain them, do it. Get them together and try to keep them from sinking too deep into the hallucination.” he pauses, “Pain should ground them for a while. If they start to hallucinate slap them, kick them, hit them, whatever it takes. I assume the Argent girl has a knife? Use it if you have to.”

“I think…” Peter lets out a frustrated hiss of air, “It sounds like hex bags.” he chews on his lip, “There are other things it could be, but they aren’t things we could deal with so…” he trails off, “Are you with me so far?”

“Yeah. Damage control and then hex bags. How do we counter them?” Stiles is with him and listening attentively. Yet another reason he’s Peter’s favorite.

“You need to find them and burn them. They’re small, bits of herbs and bone in a piece of leather or a handkerchief tied into a pouch. They’ll be in the rooms where the wolves are staying.” Peter pauses suddenly. “How the hell would the darach know which rooms they would be in?”

Shit. maybe it’s not hex bags. Maybe it’s something they can’t undo without preparation and rituals.

“We weren’t even supposed to stay at a hotel. The meet got postponed a day.” Stiles replies, “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re fucked.” Peter spits. “Hex bags are put in a room where the victim will be for a while. It’s passive magic, so it takes a while to kick in. Once it’s got a hold of the victim, though, it’s just a matter of time whether they leave the room or not, the curse goes with them. You break the curse by burning the bag.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “Any kind of room? Just anywhere they’ll be for a while? Like a vehicle?”

“The bus. Of course.” Peter breaths out. Then he laughs, “You did it, Stiles. Once again, you’re the key to saving your friends’ lives. And you wonder why I say you’re my favorite.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go overboard.” Stiles says, obviously high on relief, just like Peter is, otherwise he would have been much less receptive to praise, and especially praise from Peter. “So the hexbags, we just burn them?”

“Yup, with fire. No magic words or anything like that, but they’ll be hidden. Take that bus apart if you have to.” he says. “Text me when you’ve burned them. Call if you have trouble. There should be one for each of the wolves.”

“Will do. Thanks, Peter.” Stiles says hurriedly, about to end the conversation.

“Wait!” Peter says thinking of one last thing, “If you have time, look inside the bags. There should be something personal, something that belongs to each of the wolves. If we know where the darach got them…”

“We might be able to find out who it is.” Stiles finishes for him. “Right. Ok. Alright. I’ll text you when it’s over.”

“Go.” Peter says and they disconnect.

Peter sighs. He really hopes it is hex bags. It could still be something else but...well, it’s pointless to think about that, just like it’s pointless to think about all the places you could hide a hex bag in a bus that might take a very long time to find.

In any case, Stiles seems to be coming around to the idea of their collaboration. Desperation makes for strange allies. Of course the boy will still be wary of him, as he should be, but it’s obvious that they can work together.

Peter shakes his head with a smile. It’s a pity that they had met under these circumstances. They would have made a formidable team. He looks up at the sky, just after dusk the horizon is still just a little orange-green transferring slowly into the deep blue of the night sky.

He checks his watch. It’s almost nine. He has some time, but an hour isn’t really all that long and he still has to run home and he’s hungry, since he skipped lunch. He hadn’t really felt like tempting Deucalion’s wrath by asking when he was already so angry.

Peter heads towards the small park by the apartment to wait. He doesn’t want to get a call or text from Stiles in the presence of Deucalion, just in case he takes an interest. It’s only seven minutes later that Stiles texts him with the all clear. He grins in relief and pride. Seven minutes is quite good for looking through an entire bus. He hasn’t even gotten to the park yet. Stiles doesn’t mention the contents of the bags, so Peter assumes he either didn’t get a chance to look or that they’ll speak of it at their next meeting.

Peter heads straight to the apartment, since he’s already gotten the text from Stiles and he has nowhere else to go, really.

Deucalion is in the living room on the couch when Peter emerges from the hallway. Deucalion looks up disdainfully and Peter immediately tenses and lifts his chin exposing his throat. Deucalion makes no movements so Peter approaches him cautiously.

“Alpha.” he says quietly, looking down and kneeling at Deucalion’s feet. He’ll have to be very diplomatic tonight to win Deucalion back over. Of course he had been planning to be diplomatic this entire time and this is where it’s gotten him so far.

Deucalion rests a hand on his head, threading his fingers gently through Peter’s hair. Peter shivers under his touch. He turns his head into Deuce’s hand and looks up at him through his lashes.

“You have yet to find the darach.” Deucalion says, his expression hard and unreadable.

“Yes, alpha.” Peter replies softly, carefully formal. Deucalion has given no hint of his intentions, whether he plans to continue to punish Peter for this morning or whether he’s searching for a reason to forgive him.

“You missed dinner.” Deucalion says abruptly. Peter freezes. This is clearly a test, but for what Peter doesn’t know.

“Yes, alpha.” he says simply. He supposes it’s true and he could go without dinner, of course, all though he’d prefer not to. Still, simple affirmation of his statement is preferable to angering Deucalion by making requests and being subsequently punished in addition to not getting dinner.

He’s tired of resisting Deucalion, though and things will be difficult with Deucalion angry at him and the most irresistible thing to an alpha is submission so Peter closes his eyes and gives into his beta instincts and gently lays his head against Deuce’s thigh.

He doesn’t make any comment. Anything he says will be interpreted as an attempt at manipulation. Deucalion knows him too well not to assume that. He might not get any dinner out of this gambit, but it probably won’t hurt things.

He hears Deucalion sigh as the hand on his head continues to stroke across his hair, then gently brush past his ear. The hand continues its caress until it stops heavy at his throat.

Peter swallows a whimper and tries to will his heart to slow down because Deucalion will easily be able to feel the panicky thud of his pulse through his veins. Because the only barrier between Deucalion’s claws and Peter’s blood spilling everywhere out of his body is a fragile, thin layer of skin, practically insignificant, and yet the only difference of significance.

“Are you hungry?” Deucalion asks. His voice is soft, but Peter still jumps. He wets suddenly dry lips.

“Yes.” he says.

Deucalion grips the back of his neck and tilts his head back so that he’s looking directly into Peter’s eyes, searching for something. Peter’s tongue darts out again and Deucalion’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly on his throat, but Peter notices.

“I wish things didn’t have to be this way, Peter.” Deucalion admits. Easy for him to say. “If you had been the alpha when I came here I would have had you in my pack the very first day.”

Peter stares. Of course Deucalion is ignoring the fact that he would have had to kill Derek, his nephew, and Scott as well as any others he had bitten in the interim. True, it wasn’t that farfetched considering all anyone knows is that he had killed Laura, but that had been an accident. He hardly even remembers that night.

He’s glad he wasn’t the alpha when Deucalion came. If he had still been out of his mind….if he hadn’t already been killed and come back…

He doesn’t really want to be honest with himself about what might have happened, if Deucalion had come with his pack of alphas when Peter was still the alpha himself, while he still had that anger, that lust for revenge pumping through his veins like black blood, unable to heal.

It didn’t happen, though. He’s here instead. On his knees to the alpha he could have turned out to be: bloodthirsty and ruthless, but powerful.

“Come on.” Deucalion’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. “Let’s get you fed.”

Peter sighs in relief. It seems as though Deucalion is looking for reconciliation after all.

This has been a more difficult line to straddle than Peter had anticipated, the line between obeying Deucalion and wanting to obey Deucalion. His defense mechanism so far has been anger, lashing out to prevent himself from giving in to his instincts, but he’s only been able to do that at Deucalion’s whim. If Deucalion stops being amused by Peter’s games then that type of defense is off the table and he’s in trouble.

All these balancing acts are starting to wear on him.

Act like an attentive and submissive beta, but don’t submit. Act like you’re working for Deucalion, but make sure Derek’s pack stays your priority. Act like you’re following the rules, but get around them one way or another. Don’t let Deucalion know that you still have a...soft spot for him. Don’t let anyone know that. Act like you’ve got everything under control. Fall apart.

He follows Deucalion to the kitchen quietly. There is a way to make things simpler, though. It’s so much easier to use the truth as the basis for a weapon than to forge one from new out of a lie.

There’s only one thing stopping him and with one simple assurance from Deucalion, if he believes that alpha is telling the truth, well, it will be a whole new game.

“Are you…” he begins as they enter the kitchen. Hesitancy will make him seem more vulnerable and the more vulnerable he seems the more Deucalion’s protective instincts will be applied.

Deucalion seems immediately transfixed, though. He stares at Peter intently, as though he has something particular that he wants Peter to say, but doesn’t necessarily know what it is himself.

“Go on.” Deucalion urges.

“Are you really just after the darach?” Peter asks. “You’re not…” He pauses. This is a very dangerous route to go down. “You’re not really interested in Derek and his pack, are you?”

“Not really, no.” Deucalion answers with mild ambiguity and Peter is so sick of his little non-answers, his fucking brush offs.

Peter snaps. He wrenches the coffee maker out of its socket and shoves the entire contents of one of the counters viciously to the floor.

“For fuck’s sake.” Peter yells. “Just give me something!”

There’s glass and coffee and who knows what else on the floor of the kitchen now and Deucalion just stands and watches. Peter takes a broken step forward and falls to his knees at Deucalion’s feet, cold coffee seeping into the knees of his jeans.

“If you just tell me, please, that you’ll leave them out of this, for good, I’ll do anything you want. I’ll give you everything.” Peter pleads with him and he’s sincere. As long as the pack is safe, as long as the darach is their goal Peter can accept that. He can give up worrying about the rest of it, about the aftermath, about getting back to the Hale pack somehow and just give in. He wants to.

Deucalion just watches him inscrutably for a moment. Peter can’t tell if he’s just surprised by Peter’s outburst or if he’s carefully considering and scheming.

“Please.” Peter says, swallowing nervous nausea. “I know that I shouldn’t ask for...favors, but…” he looks up at Deucalion and meets his eyes boldly, nakedly for the first time since their argument, “I would be yours.”

Once he’s sure the pack is safe, out of Deucalion’s plans, the darach dead, once he’s bought them time to grow and solidify and regroup he can just disappear. He can just follow Deucalion and fade into memory. They all hate him anyway, even Derek, and they have good reason to. He’s only contributing to the instability of the pack. Even if the alphas kill him once he’s served his purpose it will still have been a worthy end, a job well done.

He collapses back onto his heels and stretches his arms out in surrender, exposed and at Deucalion’s mercy, the perfect picture of desperation, “Please.” he says one last time and waits for Deuce to take advantage of his weakness.

Just like Peter wants him to.


	16. In Which a Proposal is Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanowrimo is finally over! And I actually won! WHOO! :D
> 
> So, now back to your semi-regularly scheduled Peter and Deucalion. :D This chapter was REALLY hard to write for some reason. Hope you all like it!! :D

Deucalion stares at him for a brief moment. His hands are clenched against the counter. Peter kneels patiently in supplication before him.

“I did have designs on your nephew when I first came here.” Deucalion admits, “We were under attack and the Hale’s have always been a powerful family. He was young, alone, newly alpha: the perfect target for an addition to our pack.”

None of this surprises Peter.

“But now I have something much better.” Deucalion continues reaching down to caress Peter’s face. “Something I’ve wanted for a long time.” He says, practically whispering now, voice low and intimate. His hand curls softly around the back of Peter’s neck and Peter shivers under his touch.

Deucalion angles Peter’s head, skull resting heavy in his hand, so that he is looking directly into Peter’s eyes and whispers lightly, “I have no intention of interfering with the Hale pack or Scott McCall.”

Relief hits Peter hard. He sags and all his energy leaves him. He lets it show for Deucalion’s benefit. He’s not in the mood to gloat, but he can’t help but be pleased that Deucalion is acting exactly as Peter expected and wanted.

But god he’s getting himself in deep. He won’t say too deep because he has to believe that he can still get himself through this undamaged. As long as Deucalion isn’t…as longs as this is the demon’s influence, this viciousness, this lust for power…

If, at the end of this, Deucalion just goes back to being who he was six years ago, the man Peter knew, everything will turn out fine.

Then again, Peter’s changed plenty himself since then. Perhaps the Deucalion he knew would be just as horrified by him now as he is by this Deucalion.

Deucalion sinks to one knee in front of him apparently uncaring of the spilled coffee and glass. Peter sways towards him as Deuce strokes the back of his neck gently with his thumb.

This is it. They’re on the precipice. They’re going to kiss, just like before but now Peter is ready for it. He has Deuce’s assurance that his pack is safe and he believes him. It’s no longer an either-or, two sides pitted against each other in conflict. He can allow his allegiance to fall more firmly on Deucalion’s side without betraying the Hale pack. He can hold Deuce as something precious, to be protected, desired without compromising the safety of the children.

Deucalion draws them closer, tentative in the face of Peter’s previous panicked rejection. He needn’t worry this time though. Peter wants this. He’s wanted this all along.

And now that he’s finally free to have what he wants he’s going to make sure Deuce understands that his hesitations are at an end.

He surges forwards pressing their lips together hard, grasping at Deucalion’s shirt with desperate hands, pulling him closer. Deucalion meets him force for force moments later, clutching at the back of his neck tighter, running his other hand through Peter’s hair, scraping down his chest around his waist to grip his ass firmly. Peter’s hips jerk forward at the firm squeeze and he makes an embarrassing noise deep in his throat. Deucalion’s only response is to adjust the angle of his jaw so that he can even more thoroughly devour Peter, tongue plunging in and out of his mouth, teeth biting at lips, gasping breaths gusting over shiny spit slick skin.

He’s almost forgotten about the hand on his ass when he suddenly finds himself effortlessly hefted up to his feet by his alpha and it makes his legs go weak at the show of strength; it’s not often that Peter’s partners are stronger or even as strong as he is.

Deucalion shoves them against a counter, pinning Peter there with his hips, grinding their erections together harshly. Peter can do nothing but moan open-mouthed into Deucalion’s brutal kiss and spread his legs so that Deuce can slip a thigh between them.

Deuce’s hands claw through his hair leaving him no escape from the hot mouth covering his own even though he’s already breathless with need and desire and he’s feeling a bit floaty. Deucalion releases him finally and he gasps trying to replenish his oxygen, trying to think as Deucalion bites and tugs at his lower lip.

Then Deuce’s mouth is at his neck and he bites down with blunt human teeth, fuck, right where he had bitten to claim Peter and it’s just as devastating now as it was then. His back arches like a bow, hips stuttering forward into Deucalion’s, eyes clenching closed and jaw slack with pleasure too strong, too fast, too much and he’s practically crawling up the counter to get away, but Deucalion’s body pins him down and he grips Peter’s biceps to keep his restless hands still, as opposed to ineffectually flying from grip to grip, fluttering over waist then chest, back, waist again, thighs, trying to find somewhere his hands fit that will mitigate the unending flow of overwhelming passion.

Deuce spins them, moving Peter once again with brute strength to the hallway and out of the coffee puddle of the kitchen. He slams Peter up against the wall but instead of continuing his devastating onslaught he steps away from Peter, putting space between them, pinning Peter with a strong, broad hand around the column of his throat. Peter swallows hard against Deuce’s firm grip panting in the aftermath of their kiss.

Peter is so frustrated at the abrupt cessation of affection that he can only meet Deuce’s stare. He realizes though on closer inspection that Deuce isn’t just watching him he’s scrutinizing him, eyes dark and hard. He’s suspicious.

Fuck.

Peter licks his lips nervously and watches Deuce’s pupils expand and his nostrils flare. Deuce presses harder against his neck and squeezes just enough that Peter’s head feels a little heavy and thick and his mouth drops open as he takes in harsh little gasps of what air Deucalion is allowing him and his chin tips back exposing his neck, surrendering his throat even more and his heart is racing in fear or desire, trying to keep up against the extra pressure of Deuce’s fingers.

“Yet another sudden capitulation.” Deucalion says voice low and Peter can practically feel the vibrations of it through the hand around his neck, “You offer me everything when that’s exactly what I already have per our original agreement. You’re already mine, Peter.”

Shit. Peter swallows again and it’s harder this time. He’s wheezing through each breath, but Deucalion knows what he’s doing apparently because Peter hasn’t come close to losing consciousness. Yet.

Deucalion doesn’t believe him, doesn’t believe his desires are genuine or, at the very least, believes Peter’s using them as a manipulation tactic, a seduction. It’s a little funny since Deuce has it almost backwards. Peter has been trying to resist him this whole time and finally must give in. Still, it probably seems sudden to Deucalion, especially given his first failed attempt to yield to the man, shoving him away instead of kissing him. This must seem very convenient, very insincere.

“As soon as I claimed you,” Deuce continues eyes flicking briefly to Peter’s neck then back to his face, “You became mine in every way. Why should I let you trade favors with me in exchange for something that already belongs to me?” He says with an emphasizing squeeze.

“Not trade.” Peter manages to choke out hoarse and thin-voiced. Deuce eases up slightly to let him speak.

“I only asked your intentions,” Peter rasps gulping down as much air now as he can, “Didn’t try to change them.”

“You are bound to obey me regardless of my intentions. That was the deal you offered. That was the deal you made.” Deucalion persists squeezing hard and long and then releasing for Peter’s response and fuck if he isn’t still hard in his pants.

“Was trying.” He gasps out, writhing against the wall. “Wanted to, but…” Deucalion’s grip tightens and he’s choked off with a guttural sound. He’s cut off completely, gagging on nothing. Oh god. Shit. He’s said the wrong thing. Deucalion is truly angry now. Instinct drives him to grab Deucalion’s wrist trying weakly to pry the fingers off, but it’s too late and Deucalion doesn’t give him an inch.

“But what?” Deucalion says smoothly, sounding dangerously calm, stepping in close and slow and Peter is seeing bright white spots in his vision and things are fading out. His ears are roaring and he can hear his heart fluttering, panicked in his chest.

“Family.” he mouths desperately no sound at all escaping from Deucalion’s ruthless clenching fingers.

All he can feel is those fingers digging into his skin, grinding against his windpipe. His hands drop, numb, from their trembling attempts to free himself. He’s going to have a collar of bruises a dark ring of Deucalion’s fingerprints around his neck. If he survives.

His vision fades to black and he thinks his legs give out, but everything feels so far away except for Deuce’s hand, hot and painful against his throat.

He comes to slowly. Things are fading in as strangely as they had faded out like he’s rewinding a video. He’s still upright, held in place between the wall and Deucalion’s hard body pressing into him like prison bars. His head feels heavy as it rests on Deucalion’s shoulder and he lifts it strenuously. Deucalion waits patiently for him to recover enough that he can brace himself against the wall and not fall over. His throat is burning with every heaving breath he takes, but he’s grateful for the air.

He glances up quickly, cautiously, to get a read on the situation but Deucalion’s face is inscrutable and he doesn’t want to risk his anger by staring. He makes himself small and keeps his eyes downcast.

“So.” Deucalion says, “Family is your highest priority.” Deucalion says stroking his cheek and looking at him like he’s a puzzle that is about to be solved or possibly thrown out.

Peter opens his mouth to respond but all that comes out is a choking gasp and then a long series of desperate, wracking coughs. Deucalion holds him up and waits patiently. “Not a priority.” Peter finally manages to rasp, although that’s pretty much a lie of semantics, “A responsibility. He’s my nephew, the son of my sister.”

“It’s alright, Peter.” Deucalion tries to soothe him, “That’s part of your character, your values.”

Peter risks another glance up and Deucalion is looking down on him with kindness or pity in his eyes, the kind of expression a person puts on right before they put down an injured animal. It’s meant to be comforting, somehow, but it’s not.

“You’re so very, very good at fooling people, aren’t you, Peter? Even yourself.” Deucalion continues and Peter tenses, hands curling into claws against the wall as he presses himself as far away from Deucalion as he can. It’s not very far; He’s thoroughly cornered.

“I wonder if you even know what you want.” Deuce says, stroking a hand through his hair and pulling him up to look him in the eyes. “In the pursuit of one goal you change everything else about yourself.”

“If you’re saying I’m adaptable, it’s true.” Peter counters, “Those who don’t change to suit their surroundings don’t last long.”

Deucalion smirks, teasing the tip of one ear with a clawed finger. “Surely some things stay the same, some basic defining characteristics.”

Peter just watches. It’s true, but he’s not going to help Deucalion build his case for whatever point he intends to make.

“It’s family, Peter. For you, it’s family. The one characteristic you can’t change, or can’t change easily.” Deucalion tells him quietly.

“This,” Peter gestures vaguely between the two of them, “has nothing to do with family.” If Deucalion has a problem with Peter’s protectiveness of Derek and what’s left of the Hale pack they are as good as dead already. He can’t stop Deucalion from doing anything. He can try to convince him of things, but if Deucalion makes his mind up, that’s it: game over.

Deucalion just smirks knowingly at him, the condescending bastard.

“What do you want me to say?” Peter asks viciously, “You’ve denied that you have any interest in Derek’s pack and I believe you. That’s all I wanted, which you know. The impasse is at an end. We both have what we want.”

“For now.” Deucalion says, tilting his head with a smile, “But what happens when your end game changes? The rest of you changes with it. Are chameleons even capable of sincerity? What happens the next time I do something you don’t like? Will you pout and disobey me and try to bargain with me with your body?”

Deucalion gives him a once over and Peter snarls, shoving him once to no effect then digging his claws through the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m agreeing with you!” Peter yells, “You win. You have everything. You _own_ me. Is that what you want to hear? Taking care of my family is my duty. Duty done. I don’t care about anything else.”

Peter bites his lip to stop himself before he can say more. He’s already said too much. He has to calm down, regain control, but this argument doesn’t make sense. They both have what they want. If Deucalion really doesn’t care about Derek then Peter’s finished. Mission accomplished. Deucalion seems worried about future manipulation on Peter’s part. Peter doesn’t have any other objectives.

“I am not trying to change our bargain.” Peter finally says slowly, “I am only letting you know that without Derek to worry about I have no other objectives.” He looks up boldly, glaring at Deucalion, “You’ve already succeeded in making yourself my only priority.”

“Oh, Peter, Peter, Peter” Deucalion scolds, smirking, “How am I to trust you? You betrayed your pack and your family when they were the same thing, now you want me to trust you on the grounds of being pack alone?”

This is getting nowhere. Deucalion clearly wants something but, for once, Peter finds himself at a loss. He tilts his head forward and grits his teeth, “What do you want from me?”

Deucalion’s predatory smile widens and Peter braces himself.

“I’m going to make this easier on you.” Deucalion says sliding a small step forward eating up the remaining room between them crowding Peter. “I know you’ve been struggling between your two loyalties.”

“They aren’t conflicting anymore.” Peter growls out as clawed fingers trail down his neck, tiny sensitive pinpricks.

“Then it should be even easier.” Deucalion says, “And I want your entire allegiance. Let’s do away with the two sides altogether.”

Peter tenses, frozen. Do away with… “What do you mean?” he manages to whisper, hoarse and uneasy.

“The two can be one again, pack and family.” Deuce whispers into his ear completely overwhelming Peter’s body with his own, hot and absolute and relentless. Peter shivers against him and bites the inside of his cheek tasting blood as Deucalion’s open mouth presses against his throat, fangs scraping across the bruised skin and he speaks:

“Agree to be my mate.”


	17. In Which Sex (that is all)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER OVER! HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY, CAUSE PETER SURE DOES ;D
> 
> So yeah...this is pretty much the first dirty dirty smut thing I've posted :O so I hope you guys enjoyed it!!! Aaaaand, Oh, and I'm curious, where do people think the plot is going? Like, if you had to write the ending of this story, what would you have happen.
> 
> Also, I'm going to try doing a doodle-y sketch for each chapter. This chapter's sketch can be found here: http://corullinterests.tumblr.com/post/69530220068/peter-post-choke-out-just-imagine-the-rest-of-his  
> (it contains bruises, but it's sfw in all other senses)
> 
> ENJOYYYY

“Agree to be my mate.”

It’s like Deucalion’s hand is squeezing his throat again. He can’t breathe for a moment.

Mating isn’t…no one takes mates anymore it’s medieval, a dusty ancient bonding ritual. It’s so old that even he doesn’t know how the ritual works and that’s saying something. Most werewolves just get married now, if they want to, like normal people, but of course nothing in Peter’s life can just be normal.

He knows the mating bond is supposed to be something like a pack bond, but stronger, including a boost in power to both participants and a vague advantage when trying to find each other and god knows what else. There’s no advantage for Deucalion as an alpha, nor for Peter as a beta; it’s a bond of equals, neither gaining an advantage over the other. In fact, it will probably be a more equal relationship than the one they have now.

It also isn’t really a pack related bond. It’s strictly between the pair although it’s nearly unheard of for a pair of mates to be in different packs. The important thing is that it’s for life and some legends even say that with the death of one partner the other dies soon after, pining away. Peter finds that hard to believe for several reasons, especially when applied to himself, but it’s certainly enough to give him pause.

There has to be a way out of this, but Deucalion doesn’t seem like he’ll take no for an answer.

“Agree,” Deucalion urges, nuzzling just under his ear, “And we would become the most powerful pair in California, perhaps further.”

Peter is still trying to figure out how to breathe as Deucalion continues purring in his ear. If he can just figure out what Deucalion’s goal here is he can maybe deflect the proposal for an alternative plan but there’s some sort of disconnect when it comes to Deucalion’s behavior; it’s contradictory. The man is unbalanced. First he accuses Peter of being a traitor then he asks him to more than marry him. It’s insane. It has to be the demon’s influence. Nothing else makes sense and he should really use the hagstone on Deucalion soon.

“I know you want this too.” Deucalion says caressing Peter’s hips and stroking his flanks. “You still think of Riverside, just as I do. You can’t help yourself.” Peter gasps as Deucalion’s hand slips under Peter’s shirt and continues to croon, “We’ll do it according to tradition, on the full moon…”

Deucalion keeps talking but Peter immediately tunes him out. He begins to calculate quickly. The full moon is 24 days away. They have the hagstone. Argent’s list will be in his hands soon. It will take them maybe three days to identify the darach. There have been twelve sacrifices so far. That’s four groups of three. Going by the usual patterns, threes, fives, or sevens sometimes, there are either 3 sets of sacrifices left or, hopefully, only one more set.

It’s likely five. Five is more typical. If there’s only one more set of sacrifices to make, just three more victims he’ll probably be fine; everything will be over before the full moon. If it’s four sets…if it’s four sets there will be complications. If they find the darach before he’s finished making sacrifices it’s likely that Deucalion will remain possessed. Maybe Peter will be able to find another way to exorcise him, but it will be incredibly difficult to find someone powerful enough even under ordinary circumstances. It will be next to impossible if he’s mated to an unknowingly possessed alpha. Which means he’ll either have to help the darach speed up his timetable or, he swallows a lump in his throat, or he’ll be mated to Deucalion for life.

Neither of those is appealing, but he’s also pretty sure that refusing Deucalion at this point will mean his life.

He has to take this bet. There’s no choice. At least he has a chance to get out of it. If it’s five sets of sacrifices, if they can identify the darach in time, if, if, if…

But Peter’s nothing if not a betting man. It’s not much of a bet, but it’s all he’s got, so he rolls the dice.

“Yes.” He interrupts whatever Deucalion was murmuring in his ear. “Yes, I’ll do it.” He says, turning his head to look Deucalion in the eyes. “On the full moon, I’ll be your mate.”

And Deucalion beams at him. He actually beams, like his smile has become the sun and he presses their mouths together in a firm, passionate kiss and embraces Peter fully, wrapping both arms around him and squeezing them together.

Peter tries to settle on one of the emotions that are currently cascading through him. Part of him wants to roll his eyes at the frankly embarrassingly inane display of emotion over an engagement. Then the thought of being engaged makes him gag a little. Then, of course, there’s the cynical part of him that’s just laughing its ass off at the gallows humor. _Of course Deucalion wants to be his magical soul mate, because, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t?_ Another part of him is still just completely stunned that mating has even come up.

There’s one other part of Peter, just a tiny, miniscule part, the part that’s in charge of having the most insane impulses so that the rest of his thoughts can be sane and logical in peace. That part of Peter is maybe just a little flattered and maybe bored enough that the challenge seems interesting and maybe just a little intrigued by the thought of…

But no, no, he’s definitely not going to go through with this. It’s a terrible idea. He absolutely knows that. There’s no question that it would be up at the top of the list of worst decisions ever.

He leaves behind the rumination when Deucalion finally releases him from his heartfelt embrace to stare lovingly into his eyes. Peter manages to form a questionable smile that luckily manages to pass muster for this joyous occasion. Ugh. Not rolling his eyes at every mention of their engagement is going to be a serious problem.

Peter’s still trying to remember how to smile properly when Deucalion, singlehandedly turns the situation into an unacceptably cliché horrific romantic-comedy-psychological-thriller mash up, and literally sweeps him off his feet and carries him bridal style to the master bedroom.

Wow. And he had thought just being a beta was bad. This is utterly mortifying.

At least he’s going to get laid.

But Deucalion is talking again, “I assume, given your occult knowledge, you know how the ritual works.” He says placing Peter gently on the foot of the bed.

“Uh,” Peter says, hoping against hope that somehow he’s not blushing. “Actually it wasn’t really a topic I was too invested in researching at the time.” And oh how he bitterly regrets that now, but who could have known.

“Really?” Deucalion says, truly surprised, “You’re usually so thorough.”

“Well, I didn’t foresee it becoming relevant, to be honest.” Peter says dryly.

Deucalion just smirks. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty, eh, Peter?”

“Apparently.” He replies, annoyed.

“Shall I explain it to you, then?” Deucalion asks, setting one knee on the end of the bed between Peter’s knees and leaning forward. Peter gives and leans backwards scooting slowly upwards as Deucalion advances.

“Please, enlighten me.” He replies, sarcasm a little shaky. Deucalion is staring at his throat and Peter swallows a nervous cough and shifts further up the bed. Deucalion pursues him reaching out to gently stroke the column of his neck and his fingers are like lightning over the sensitive skin. Deucalion’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Peter’s breath catches slightly.

“Your neck…” he says, voice low reverberating through the room. Peter’s nearly propped up against the headboard now, his steady retreat up the bed at an end. He’s not sure what his neck has to do with an ancient mating ritual, but then he realizes Deucalion’s been distracted for another reason. His neck must be fully dark with bruises by now, an imprint of Deucalion’s hand that won’t fade for probably another few hours. It sends a shiver down his spine to think of Deucalion fucking him with the mark he put there still blue-black under his skin.

“I forget sometimes that you’re not an alpha.” Deucalion admits as he strokes the bruises transfixed by the evidence of his violence. He snaps out of his almost reverent admiration and switches back to staring into Peter’s eyes.

“Sorry.” Peter says sarcastically rolling his eyes.

“No.” Deucalion corrects him quickly, settling between his now widely splayed legs. “I enjoy it. I’m glad my marks stay.” He smirks.

Peter swallows again a hand drifting idly up to his throat. It still hurts a little, but things could have gone much worse. “I don’t mind them much myself.” He says, not sure if he’s being sincere or simply flattering Deucalion’s ego. Then he stirs himself from his confused stupor and gives Deucalion his sexiest smirk, which is pretty damn smoldering if he says so himself. He cranes his neck up slowly to catch Deuce’s lips again. He doesn’t want to worry about the future anymore, about what comes next. He wants to lose himself in the familiar, although long unvisited, pleasure of Deucalion’s body, his body, their bodies together.

Deucalion pushes hungrily into his kiss shoving him against the headboard with a sense of eagerness, but he breaks off sooner than Peter would like.

“Don’t you want to know what we’re about to do?” Deucalion asks, stroking his cheek with a thumb, caging him against the bed.

Peter looks at him quizzically, “I think I have a pretty good idea of what we’re about to do.”

Deucalion tilts his head, “I thought you said you knew nothing of the ritual.”

Peter’s hands clench, but he keeps calm and manages to speak slowly, “I thought you said the next full moon.”

“Dear Peter,” Deucalion purrs and Peter’s heart flutters, “No need to get cold feet just yet. There’s an engagement ritual. It can be performed as early as desired.” He continues, his hand skating down Peter’s chest, claw extended, slicing through the fabric of his shirt like a hot knife through butter. “And I want to do it now.” He continues wrapping his hands around Peter’s hips, “So that everyone knows you’re mine.” He says huskily as he pulls Peter’s hips up to slot against his own.

Peter’s breath catches and he lets out a surprised moan. Deuce is so strong and yes, that’s definitely a turn on. His back arches and he shudders in Deucalion’s grip.

“Right.” Peter says, still shaken at the possibility that they were going to do the ritual tonight, “So, how does it work?”

“It’s primarily a marker of consideration.” Deucalion says, “We each bite the other, here,” he strokes the juncture of Peter’s throat and shoulder, “Then we apply a mixture of our blood and hemlock.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, “ _Poison_ hemlock? Have you ever seen this done?”

“No,” Deucalion says with an indulgent smile, “But I’m sure we’ll be fine. Dried hemlock is significantly less poisonous than fresh.”

“Oh, good. I was worried for a second.” Peter replies sarcastically. “I assume with the application of the hemlock mixture the bites will scar.”

“Mmm.” Deucalion happily hums his affirmative while nuzzling Peter’s neck. “I want you to wear my mark.” He says, preemptively laving the place on his throat, “And I will be glad to wear yours.”

Peter sighs inwardly. Looks like he’s not going to come out of this completely unscathed, but a bite scar isn’t that bad, really. Most people won’t know its connection to the mating ritual. He’ll just have to start investing in higher collars and scarves: unfortunate, but not completely tragic.

“Alright.” He says resignedly, “Let’s do this.” And waits for Deucalion to get off so they can make a poison blood cocktail and smear it on each other’s open wounds. Wonderful.

Deucalion smirks and reaches over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and fishing out, to Peter’s growing surprise, a wooden bowl, a packet of herbs, presumably hemlock and a bottle of lube. By the time Deucalion’s got everything out and on the bed Peter’s jaw has nearly dropped off his face.

“How long have you been planning this?” Peter asks, slightly terrified to hear the answer.

“Since you refused to eat out of my hand.” Duecalion replies with a laugh, but becomes serious a moment later, “I know what I want, Peter.”

“Right.” Peter says gulping down his misgivings and pasting on a smile, “Shall we proceed then?”

Deucalion’s lips curl into a predatory smile as he moves to hover over Peter, hands braced at Peter’s shoulders and knees between Peter’s legs. Deucalion’s one hand moves to cradle Peter’s skull, and Peter can tell he’s being careful of the bruises, as he maneuvers them into a deep kiss like he’s trying to suck the air out of Peter. Peter shoves into the kiss brutally, tired of all the suspense and teasing. They should just get the ritual done and then get back to actually enjoying themselves. He breaks the kiss when he gets too impatient.

“Well, come on.” Peter huffs, “Let’s do the whole blood ritual thing.”

Deucalion snorts delicately and kneels back upright, “Aren’t you supposed the one who savors things to the very last?”

“I want to get the poisoning over with so I can move on to the things worth savoring.” Peter says defensively.

“Not much of a multitasker then?” Deucalion asks innocently as he takes the wooden bowl and reaches for Peter’s wrist.

“Why?” Peter asks as he obediently slices his forearm with an extended claw and holds it over the bowl.

Deucalion licks his lips and watches the red beads drip down his skin, which isn’t alarming at all. Then he looks up, his eyes alpha red and shining, “I want to do it while I’m fucking you. I want to sink my teeth into you and mark you for everyone to see, to know that you’re mine while I’m buried deep inside you.”

Peter’s nostrils flare and his breath catches. His hand trembles above the bowl of blood. Deucalion nuzzles his face and licks at the corner of his lips gently moving Peter’s arm away from the bowl and smears the last trickle of blood over his arm with his thumb as the cut heals up.

“I want to taste your blood filling my mouth as I fill you up from the inside.” Deucalion continues and Peter arches in anticipation. Deucalion slices his arm open and lets his blood mix and mingle with Peter’s. “That way, when people see your mark they’ll know you belong to me but when I look at it I’ll think of you writhing helplessly under me.”

Peter shudders in Deucalion’s arms as he lays the bowl at their bedside and looks back at Peter with blazing eyes and claws fully extended. Deucalion tumbles him back onto the bed, straddling him, shins pinning his thighs to the bed. He hooks a claw under Peter’s chin and tilts his head back.

“You’re beautiful.” He says watching Peter with glowing eyes. Peter preens under him and turns his head, exposing his neck further, willingly. Deucalion growls and takes the bait, but instead of biting, like he usually does, he licks Peter’s neck in long strokes swiping across the bruised skin gently. Peter smiles while Deucalion is otherwise occupied. It’s like he’s trying to clean Peter’s wounds, how endearing.

The unprecedented gentleness wears off quickly though as Deucalion fists his hair and pulls him into another kiss and this time Peter is determined to get further. He wraps his arms around Deucalion’s waist, kissing hard and open mouthed, slowly, carefully wrapping his fingers around the hem of Deucalion’s shirt and then yanks hard, ripping the fabric apart.

Deucalion breaks the kiss and shoves him down, hands gripping his biceps hard and grinding them into the mattress. Peter looks up through his lashes innocently to receive a thoroughly disapproving glare.

Peter shrugs with a smirk, “Turnabout,” he says, gesturing to his own completely ruined shirt, “is widely considered fair play.”

Peter watches Deucalion try to resist a smile, but in the end he falls to Peter’s charms and gives him a rueful shake of the head.

“Fair play still has consequences.” Deucalion counters and Peter rolls his eyes in challenge as Deuce sheds the remains of his shirt. Peter immediately slides his hands up the hard ridges of Deucalion’s torso, finally touching skin, _finally_. He doesn’t stop there though, skimming over Deucalion’s chest around his waist and down the back of his pants to grab his ass and pull it forwards into him. He wants this to escalate, quickly.

Deucalion responds exactly the way Peter expected. His personality won’t allow Peter, a beta, to take charge physically so he digs his claws into the waistband of Peter’s jeans and grinds their erections together.

Peter’s head flings back, yes, finally. Finally. This is what he wants. Teeth and claws and skin against skin and sweat and tongues, battling for dominance, clutching, clenching and sinking into one another with abandon.

Peter is abruptly flipped onto his belly with a yelp of surprise and shoved down into the mattress. Deucalion pins his thighs with a leg, pins a wrist with one hand and presses a forearm across his back letting all the force of his weight hold him down while a hard cock jutting firm and obvious, even through their various layers of clothing, against the cleft of his ass.

Peter squirms, but he can hardly move. He has no leverage, lying prone under his alpha. There’s no way he can escape, so instead he flexes his hips, shoving his ass back and up. He’s so ready. They don’t even have their pants off yet but he’s just so fucking tired of waiting.

Luckily Deucalion seems to be on the same page. This isn’t a long awaited reunion between lovers. This is a desperate need to satisfy the savage desires they’ve both been waiting to unleash on each other. Deucalion shoves his hand under Peter’s hips, wrenching the zipper on his jeans down and popping the button off. He jerks the jeans and boxers down just to mid thigh without fanfare. Peter hears Deucalion undoing his own fly and twists around to watch but a hand to the back of his neck stops him. Peter pants under Deucalion, testing, flexing his muscles, trying to find a way out of Deucalion’s hold, but he’s trapped.

A tongue laves at the back of his neck, replacing the hand and Peter vaguely registers hearing the snap of a cap popping off a bottle. Peter trembles as blunt teeth clamp down on his nape gently. Peter moans and goes limp and it feels so good, so fucking good to give in to the superior strength. It feels so _right_.

Hot, slick fingers cup one globe of his ass, sliding towards his hole, sliding _inside_ him one at a time, stretching him, filling him.

“You’re perfect this way, Peter.” Deucalion’s voice vibrates through his whole body and he nearly chokes on his own tongue. “You belong under me, like this.”

Peter whimpers. “Please.” He gasps, voice hoarse still, not knowing exactly what he’s begging for.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Peter.” Three fingers now, pumping in and out, just right, and he can hardly keep track of Deucalion’s words, “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes!” those words he understands. “Fuck. Yes!” He hisses, shoving back into those fingers as much as he can, which, with Deucalion’s full weight and strength, is not very much.

Deucalion’s deep hum of pleasure at his enthusiastic assent is like a revelation, the vibrations course through him and increase until they turn into a full body shudder and Deucalion is mounting him, still pressed prone into the mattress, the blunt head of his cock resting torturously at his entrance.

Peter growls in impatient frustration, straining to tilt his hips to get there and he can’t, he can’t. Deucalion stills him and his hands are fisting the sheets and Deucalion’s hips rock into him, just slightly, and Peter whines. He wants more. He wants everything. His hands scrabble around the sheets desperate to find some leverage because if Deucalion’s not going to fuck him right now he has to find a way to fuck himself, but then Deucalion is sliding in, thick and full and hot, yes, and Peter forgets to breath, but it doesn’t matter because finally, finally, Deuce is fucking him.

Peter moans. Deuce isn’t stopping, pressing in all the way, so fucking deep, Peter stretches out under him as far as he can. It feels so good.

“So good.” He finds himself mumbling. Deucalion laughs above him, voice right in his ear.

“Agreed.” He purrs into Peter’s ear, biting his ear lobe and tugging it. He wraps his arms around Peter’s torso, snagging an arm as well, holding them close together and starts to fuck Peter in earnest, hard and fast and everything that makes Peter’s toes curl and his jaw drop open and his hands clench.

Peter’s gasps are muffled in the pillows, but his free hand reaches back and snags Deucalion’s flank urging him on, goading him even. Then there’s a hand on his dick, so hot and good and still slippery from the lube and being inside him and Peter thrashes, his muscles tensing against Deucalion, but there’s nowhere to go. He has to just take it and Deucalion is relentless, ruthless, everywhere, inside him and around him, covering every part of him.

Deucalion kisses the bruise on his neck and he’s gone, coming into Deucalion’s hand with a muffled sob, biting his own hand to keep the sound from travelling, but Deucalion still hears it, judging from the satisfied exhale that’s half laugh and half moan.

Peter floats in his afterglow, sloppy and slack, enjoying the enthusiastic continued rutting. It’s a feeling he’s always enjoyed, being filled, being fucked, even if he’s just in the afterglow stage of things.

Deucalion growls against the back of his neck, fucking into him hard and fast and Peter grins into the pillow. He also enjoys watching, feeling his partners fall apart above him while he’s already regained his faculties, well, most of them.

A particularly well-aimed thrust knocks a groan out of him and Deucalion nuzzles against his cheek.

“Are you ready?” Deucalion asks, voice deep, husky and breathless. Peter buries his face in the pillow and groans in frustration and pleasure, afterglow ruined. That’s right, the ridiculous engagement bite. How romantic.

He resurfaces with a smirk. “I’ve been waiting.” Peter says, eyes glinting with challenge.

Deucalion hums against his, hot and hard, fangs scraping along his trapezius. Peter can’t help but shudder and Deucalion’s is pressing wet open-mouthed kisses against him and he’s holding his breath in anticipation.

“Try not to faint this time.” He mumbles into Peter’s shoulder and before Peter can so much as open his mouth to say son of a bitch Deucalion is biting down and Peter’s muscles seize, his hips snap up and his claws sink all the way into the mattress shredding it. He strains into, toward, away from Deucalion. He can’t tell.

He’s seeing stars and he can hear, he can _feel_ Deucalion’s deep groan vibrate through the flesh of his shoulder and his hips thrusting erratically into him. He’s coming, just like he said. Marking him inside and out. Peter moans lightly, can’t help it.

A trickle of liquid runs down his shoulder. It has to be blood. The bite hurts, sort of. He knows it’s supposed to be pain, but it feels so…it feels like so much more. His throat closes and he’s sure if he could breathe right now he’d be screaming, but his diaphragm is paralyzed. All of him is paralyzed, paralyzed and tense, but getting more and more relaxed and further and further away and sort of darker and softer and the last thing remembers thinking is that Deuce will never let him hear the end of it as everything fades completely.


	18. In Which Peter Returns the Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo...I may have gone a little overboard, but since I'll prob be drawing more fanart for this and I've just learned how to make gifs...I've made a tumblr just for this fic (OH GOD don't hate me ._. ). It can be found here: http://sacrificetocheckmate.tumblr.com/ It's NSFW!!!!
> 
> So, it's basically this fic, but multimedia (gifs, art, photosets). Since I won't be posting things chronologically what you wanna do is SEARCH chapter by chapter. So searching "Chapter 1" will get you all the posts that are media from Chapter 1. duh. Anyway....I hope that's not too egotistical by which I mean OH GOD HELP ME I CAN"T STOP :O
> 
> Also, CLIFFHANGER HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

The scent of blood is thick in Peter’s nose, suffocating. He can almost taste it.

No, wait. He _can_ taste it. He licks his lips clumsily. It’s his own blood, bright and iron-tangy on his tongue. What the hell happened?

He groans, hearing himself only distantly and something else too, getting louder, but he can’t make it out yet. He lifts his head up to get a better scent and realizes that he’s lying face down in a tacky pool of his own blood which has seeped mostly into the fabric under him sticking to his face as he moves.

“p e t e r—”

He’s belly down on something soft, a bed maybe, or...oh, and the fabric is probably sheets. That makes sense.

“Peter—“

But why is there so much blood? Is he sick? Perhaps he was fighting again.

“Peter!” Deucalion yells flipping him over and all in a rush he remembers what happened, the argument, the engagement ritual, the sex…the bite.

Fainting. _Again_.

Something seems like it’s gone wrong though. Deuce is braced on his arms hovering over him with concern or horror on his face, along with broad red smears of blood all across the lower half of his face painting his lips and cheeks down to his chin and small mesmerizing rivulets trail down his neck and chest.

It occurs to Peter that between the sheets, Deucalion, and his own drenched shoulder there’s altogether too much blood outside his body.

“Mmunngh?” he manages, which comes out nothing like his intended question of ‘what the hell’. Deuce miraculously seems to understand regardless.

There’s relief heavy in his voice, “Peter,” he sighs like he was worried that Peter would never wake up. “I…” he gently strokes the flesh next to Peter’s new bite mark, which still doesn’t seem to be hurting properly, “I got a bit carried away.”

“Yeah?” Peter mumbles hoarsely, trying vainly to get a look at his shoulder. “What, did you do, bite me twice or start chewing or something?”

Peter chuckles and stretches; for all that his shoulder doesn’t really hurt his body aches nicely, that sweet strain that lingers after a good fuck. He feels pretty good all considering. Ah, endorphins. He looks up at Deucalion with a grin but Deuce is looking away like…like he’s ashamed or angry.

“I could have killed you, Peter.” He finally says through a tightly clenched jaw.

Peter has been living with that fact since he agreed to be Deucalion’s beta. It’s not exactly news. He snorts. “How, rabies? I feel fine.”

“I bit down too hard.” Deucalion huffs, “You were bleeding like…” He shakes his head.

Peter hums. That’s a bit unexpected. “Subclavian artery.” He guesses rolling over to his side, “or, well, more likely axillary artery.” He waves the though off with an idle hand, “The one turns into the other.”

Deucalion just stares down at him, astonished.

“Never took anatomy, I suppose.” Peter quips and Deucalion grabs him and just shakes him.

“You were this close to bleeding out.” Deucalion shouts, “Don’t you understand?”

Peter looks up at him seriously, grabbing hold of his arms and catching his eyes. “I understand that I’m alive.” He says slowly. “And that I don’t want to do that again, so don’t waste it.” And he nods towards the bowl of their mixed blood and the packet of hemlock.

Deucalion glances over looking surprised, as though he had forgotten that there was a reason for the bite.

Peter peers up at Deucalion quizzically. Deuce seems really shaken up by this, which is odd, although, really there is a lot of blood, more on himself than he had first thought. It’s all down his front and his back. The bed is actually soaking.

Well, it’s times like these he’s certainly glad he’s a werewolf.

Deucalion has finally regained some manner of functionality and has moved over to the bed stand to sprinkle the packet of poison hemlock into their combined blood mixture.

Peter watches the mixture turn slowly from blood red to tar black.

“Lovely.” He can’t help but comment. Then he sighs and bends his neck to the side to give Deucalion a clear target, “Well, lay it on me.” He sighs.

Deucalion kneels over him bending close to bury his face in Peter’s other shoulder taking a deep breath, scenting him. He leans back again once he’s reassured himself and Peter gives him a raised eyebrow.

Deuce dips two fingers into the black liquid and Peter grimaces. It’s kind of disgusting.

Deuce smiles though and says, “Now everyone will know you belong to me.” Peter smiles back idly trying to remember if Deucalion had been this possessive back in Riverside.

He scoops a viscous glob of the stuff and smears it into Peter’s wound. Peter yelps breathlessly then hisses. Deucalion is watching him carefully.

“It’s cold.” Peter explains. It also tingles uncomfortably, but he figures that’s better than excruciating pain or even numbness. He shivers as Deucalion continues to apply the mixture covering every part of the bite mark. He hates feeling numb.

“Well, it’s certainly going to scar.” Peter says when Deucalion places the bowl back on the nightstand and smiles contentedly. Peter yawns again. Must be the blood loss.

Deucalion strokes the side of his face and kisses him deep and slow. Peter can taste his own blood in Deucalion’s mouth and it’s actually a lot more appealing than he thought it would be. He’s sure there are smears on his own face now as well.

The kiss is gentle though and Peter lets himself ease into Deuce’s contentment. True, Peter doesn’t intend to end up the mate of anyone, but this hasn’t been so bad. He’ll have the scar, but that’s all right. He might even grow to like it. None of the younger werewolves will know what it means. They’ll just be curious about what managed to scar a werewolf. He can make up different stories. It will be hilarious.

Deucalion breaks the kiss and leans back. Peter stretches, intending to go back to sleep at least until the wound scabs over. He might even have to put a bandage on it or something, what a novelty, but Deuce breaks his train of thought.

“Your turn Peter.” He says smirking down at Peter.

It startles Peter, but of course in order to have a mutual engagement, in other words any engagement at all, he will have to bite Deucalion and dear gods if that isn’t a rush. He will be marking the most powerful alpha in California, perhaps in all the states. This ritual, even if they (hopefully) never end up as full mates, will still leave a permanent scar. His mark will be on Deucalion until the day he dies. He can’t deny the thought is appealing, incredibly appealing.

And yet…there is a sick, wriggling feeling in the pit of his stomach, something completely foul. He still doesn’t know for sure if Deucalion is possessed. He’ll even admit to himself that he’s been holding back on checking because he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know one way or another, but if, as he suspects, Deucalion is possessed, then he can’t consent.

Peter is a hostage, that’s true, but he chose to put himself in this position of his own free will. He knew that the consequences might be…permanent, but Deucalion didn’t. He’ll wear Peter’s mark, the mark of an engagement, whether he likes it or not.

It’s an ugly thought. It makes him feel ugly, but part of him is glad that, no matter the outcome, Deucalion will never be able to forget him. He wants to be branded onto Deucalion’s skin. He wants to be remembered. He wants just that little bit of revenge: Deucalion will never be able to escape him.

It’s still an awful thought. Deucalion is innocent. He’s being used and Peter still wants this.

At least he doesn’t know for sure, yet. At least he can still hold out for the hope that Deucalion isn’t possessed.

Right. Because that would be so much better. It’s win-win and lose-lose. They’re both the victims and the villains. Hurting each other because they have to, because they can’t not.

He gives Deucalion a weak smile, “Of course.” He says, kneeling up, still a tiny bit wobbly from blood loss presumably. That should probably concern him a lot more than it does, but he has other things to worry about.

Deucalion smiles and steadies him with a hand on his elbow. They kneel on the bed together and Peter lets his head fall onto Deucalion’s shoulder.

He doesn’t want to do this. He wants to do this. The thoughts oscillate through his head. He doesn’t want to do this. He breathes in Deuce’s scent, clean and simple and calming. He wants to do it. He feels a hand on the back of his head brushing through his hair softly and almost whimpers.

He doesn’t want to do it. He opens his mouth—he wants to do this—and bites down hard.

Blood bursts into his mouth thick and cloying bubbling around his mouth escaping his lips and flowing down his chin, into his nose. He wraps his arms around Deucalion, tight and hard. He’d forgotten how sweet it was to sink your teeth into willing flesh, to drink the blood of your enemy. It’s all muddled together and suddenly, for the first time since he was ripped out of the Hale pack, he feels alive.

He bites down harder at the thought and whimpers into the muscle in his mouth. His eyes are clenched closed. He could still stop this. He doesn’t have to use the potion. He doesn’t have to scar Deuce. He could try to reason with, try to explain that he’s possessed. His jaw shakes with effort and the hand on the back of his head claws into his scalp and fists his hair, tugging.

He gives one last squeeze with his teeth and ruthlessly strangles his thoughts into control. He’s not fooling anyone, especially not himself. When this is travesty of an engagement ritual is over he will use the hagstone on Deucalion and find out what is going on. There will be no more guessing, no more wishful thinking, no more hope, just facts.

He wrenches his teeth out of Deucalion’s shoulder and shoves himself backwards. He can suddenly understand why it was so hard for Deucalion to stop.

He looks up. Deucalion’s eyes are closed and his neck is flung back. Blood is running down his chest, smeared all over his shoulder. Peter licks his lips, lapping up the blood, Deucalion’s blood.

Deucalion’s eyes open. His pupils are huge and his eyes are deep red as he watches Peter and reaches over him to the bowl of blood. He holds it out to Peter who is propped up on his elbows.

His eyes are glowing ember, “Quickly, Peter. Before it heals.”

Peter scoots up and takes the proffered bowl. The liquid is cool on his fingertips, just as it was cool on his skin. It’s a strange counterpoint to the hot blood he had just swallowed. He covers Deucalion’s bite mark with the black goo. Deucalion shivers under his fingers no doubt feeling the telltale tingle of magic working its way into his flesh to prevent the healing process.

“Poison is a funny thing, isn’t it.” Peter says idly as he sets the empty bowl back onto nightstand and wipes he hand off on the completely destroyed sheets.

“How do you mean?” Deucalion asks, probing lightly at the edge of his wound. It’s probably been a very long time since Deuce has had an injury that wasn’t gone within an hour.

“Just that it can be useful, even beneficial in some circumstances.” Peter replies. “Even the deadliest things…”

Deucalion shakes his head and stands from the bed, holding a hand out to Peter. “Come on, let’s go clean up.”

Peter smirks but takes the offered hand willingly. They’re actually pretty disgusting, covered in sticky blood and black poison goo. A shower will be very welcome, but first he has a promise to keep to himself.

“Wait.” Peter says to Deucalion releasing his hand. He rifles through their discarded clothes until he finds the hagstone in one of his pockets. He palms it, fiddling halfheartedly and looks up at Deucalion.

Deucalion quirks his head at Peter glancing at the hagstone then back to Peter’s face, a question obvious in his eyes.

“I just want to see if you, if we look different now.” Peter lies a little. He does want to see if Deucalion looks different. It just has nothing to do with the engagement ritual.

“Can a hagstone reveal that sort of thing?” Deucalion asks.

“I’m not sure.” Peter admits. The engagement probably won’t show up but a mating bond might. Peter smiles at Deucalion and puts the hagstone up to his eye.

“Let’s find out.”


	19. In Which Peter Meets with his Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so late!!! :O Holidays are super busy. They're always busier than I expect them to be, since, you know, they're called vacation. Anyway, here's a nice loooong chapter. Hope you all enjoy! :D Hurray!

Peter slowly lowers the hagstone.

“Well?” Deucalion asks good-naturedly.

Peter shakes his head more to clear it then to answer Deuce. He can still see the monster under his skin, just barely, like an afterimage. _(Deuce’s face, his features, his form are hardly recognizable under the thick black mass of the demon. It’s flesh is an inky tar, bubbling in a vaguely humanoid shape. Deuce, the real Deuce, is a small, vague shadow in the heart of the gelatinous monstrosity.)_ “The engagement doesn’t show.” Peter says, wetting a suddenly dry mouth. He shrugs playing it off. “That’s not really surprising. I’ll check again come the full moon.”

Deuce is smiling again, that calm sweet happy smile. It’s weirdly domestic. It’s even more bizarre given that the smile is covered in blood and the rest of him is just as gory with sweat and poison.

He probably doesn’t look any better himself, but he’s not the one with the blissful newlywed aura floating around like a miasma of conjugal joy.

He can only hope the feeling wears off quickly because it’s really not doing his sanity any favors.

Deucalion stretches his hand out to where Peter is kneeling.

Peter has to brace himself not to flinch ( _It doesn’t have a smell, of course, through the hagstone, but it looks rancid, like animal protein, gelatin gone black and wrong and wriggling. It’s sickening, pushing bile up to Peter’s throat, but he ruthlessly swallows the instinct_.) “Let’s get cleaned up.” Deuce says with that same warm affection.

A hot shower sounds heavenly right now, but he can’t help but hesitate. ( _The thing pulses and jiggles, sticky and oily at the same time and when it moves it’s so wrong, so antithetical to nature, to the natural grace that Peter knows Deucalion possesses. It has a mouth, Peter can sense, but he can’t see where it is. The whole thing strikes him as an open maw, a gaping wound.)_

But once again he has to push past his feelings if not totally suppress them.

He takes Deuce’s hand and is pulled easily to his feet. Deuce doesn’t release his hand though. Instead he pulls him into a half embrace, one arm slung low around his naked waist.

Deuce’s warm skin sends a chill down his spine ( _The thing is huge. It fills the room and more, extruding through the walls since it doesn’t technically exist in the physical world. For an endlessly hopeless moment Peter thinks there’s no possible way they can separate Deuce from the titan. It’s so powerful, size being directly correlated to power for demons. As he stares his blood freezes and every hair on his body stands at attention, goosebumps prickle down his arms and he knows, he knows, that the demon is conscious of his gaze. It knows he’s looking and it’s looking back.)_ He can only hope Deuce will interpret the shiver as anticipation.

The master bath seems less outrageously huge with both of them in it. Deuce caresses his hair as he turns the water on and nuzzles him while they wait for it to heat up.

The shower is sensual and tender with attentive touches and soothing strokes. It’s more like grooming than anything else and it’s so calming to have that sense of care, of pack. He hasn’t experienced this kind of simple affection since...since before the fire, at least.

The bite mark stings under the spray but not so much that he isn’t perversely glad of the physical reminder of their sex.

It will be very distracting until it heals. It seems to be distracting Deuce as well, judging by the way his wandering finders keep finding their ways to his shoulder to skirt the edge of his mark.

As bloody water sluices off them and down the drain it reveals that both his Deucalion’s wounds have stopped bleeding which, considering that apparently he had almost bled out several minutes ago, is a gratifying discovery. The black goo from the spell rinses off somewhat more reluctantly and leaves a black scab, but if they’re poisoned, they’re poisoned and there’s not much they can do about it.

It’s also obvious that Deucalion would be entirely too pleased to initiate another round of adult fun and typically Peter would be happy enough to acquiesce, but honestly he’s exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. He’s drained. Empty.

And strangely enough, though he’s giving off the signals that make it obvious he wants a repeat performance, Deucalion easily reads Peter’s own exhaustion and doesn’t push, only makes himself available.

In fact, he almost pampers Peter, gently running soapy hands all over Peter’s body, enjoying but not taking. He massages shampoo into Peter’s hair and rinses it and when they’re fingers have begun to go pruny and Deucalion finally turns the shower off he even towels Peter off himself and Peter is not solicited for anything in return. Deucalion washes and dries himself without any hint that he wanted reciprocation.

The whole thing is so sensual and tender with attentive touches and soothing strokes. It’s more like grooming than anything else and it’s so calming to have that sense of care, of pack.

It’s disturbingly domestic, but pleasant all the same.

Peter is a little unsure of what will happen the rest of the day. He would expect to be sent out with the hagstone to find the darach, but what with the sudden mating proposal he’s not quite as clear on Deucalion’s agenda as he would like.

His musings are answered as Deuce begins to dress and Peter follows his lead casually borrowing Deuce’s cloths since he can’t be bothered to go all the way to the guest bedroom to get his own.

Also he has this feeling that Deuce will like it.

“I’ll be gone all day.” Deuce says, amending after a moment, “Well, what’s left of it.”

“And I will be looking for the darach, of course.” Peter replies truthfully. Before, finding the darach had simply been a task on his list of things to do. Now it is a race.

Deucalion looks up with a surprisingly concerned expression. Peter would have thought he would be pleased.

“Be careful, Peter.” he says, “The darach is dangerous. If he realizes that you know his identity he’ll stop at nothing to kill you before you reveal the truth.”

Peter barks a laugh, “Believe me, of all of us, I think I know how dangerous a darach can be.”

Suddenly Deucalion is at his elbow, gripping his bicep lightly and spinning him to face him.

“I’m serious, Peter.” Deucalion says squeezing his arm, “Call me as soon as you find him and don’t do anything stupid.”

Peter sniffs, offended, “I _never_ do anything stupid.”

Deucalion leaves fifteen minutes later with a brief, but heartfelt kiss on the mouth, like the kiss a spouse gives to their partner on the way to work in the morning. It’s comforting, because it seems to indicate that Deucalion will be much less likely to rip his head off, but it’s still fucking weird.

The other alphas won’t dare touch him now. That’s another plus.

With a day sure to be free of Deucalion and a list of suspects to pick up, Peter texts Chris and Stiles. They’ll meet in half an hour at Stiles’ house. The Argents’ apartment is just too close to be a reasonable meeting place.

Argent texts back a bare affirmative. Stiles is a bit less cooperative and a good deal more communicative. Peter deftly circumvents all his protests mostly citing the fact that all their lives are in danger and, more specifically, _Derek’s_ life is in danger. Eventually Stiles consents to have the meeting at his house. Peter is also sure to remind him not to invite the werewolves of their pack. Deucalion hadn’t wanted him to be around his old pack before the engagement bite. It’s very likely that Deucalion will now be even more possessive about him being around his old pack.

The walk over is strange. He can feel the scab constantly pulled just by the swing of his arm as he walks. It’s unfamiliar and he’s still conflicted about it. He remembers being fascinated with the permanence that tattoos brought, as many teenagers are, but magnified by the impermanence of most marks inflicted on his body. He never did get around to getting a tattoo of any kind, so some juvenile part of him thrills at finally having something that will mark him forever. (It’s the same part that still pouts about never being able to get drunk.)

By the time he arrives at Stiles’ house Chris is already there, his typical black SUV parked obviously a few houses away.

Peter tugs the collar of his shirt up a little. It covers the mark, but just barely. It shouldn’t matter, though. Stiles won’t know its true meaning and Argent, well, hopefully he won’t know either. The bruises will show no matter what, but there’s nothing he can do about them and he has no reason to hide them.

Stiles is opening the door by the time he reaches the porch stairs. He’s clearly frantic with energy, as always, but he lacks the grudging sullen air he usually puts on when he has to deal with Peter or Chris. Good. Stiles also seem relieved at Peter’s arrival, a true miracle. No doubt he’s uncomfortable being alone with Argent. Unsurprising. Who isn’t?

“Whoa.” The boy exclaims as his eyes skim over Peter’s neck. Peter merely raises an eyebrow and Stiles backs off the topic with a slight eye roll and a gesture of surrender.

 “I’ll have you know these surprise meetings aren’t doing anything for my GPA and I was actually planning to go to college.” Stiles says as he leads Peter into the Stilinski kitchen where Chris Argent is awkwardly waiting.

“Well, hopefully these meetings will do something for your survival.” Peter replies devoid of sympathy, “By all means, skip them for studying. I’ll make sure they put your stellar GPA in the obituary.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Chris continues to frown like he always does practically ignoring the Stilinski boy to glare wholeheartedly at Peter. Argent’s eyes take in every inch of him, but his gaze lingers pointedly at his throat. He looks back at Peter to see if Peter offers an explanation, but Peter simply returns scrutiny for cold scrutiny. The moment ends, though, and nothing more is said about it.

Peter tugs his collar up. Glaring is just probably just Argent’s default expression. Perhaps he can only express himself through aggressive eye contact.

There’s an awkward momentary silence until Chris draws out a thick stack of papers loosely bound by plastic tabs through punched holes.

The list of possible suspects. Peter doesn’t bother to hide his dismay at the hefty stack.

“It’s more information than you’ll likely need. It’s organized by month and location.” Argent says handing the stack over to Peter, “Starting eight months ago ending a week after the first victim. It includes the surrounding towns and cities within reasonable distance. Each entry includes an address, name and date of arrival. This,” Chris holds up a thumb drive before handing it over to Peter as well, “is a map of all the addresses along with the locations where the sacrifices were found and any other supernatural occurrences we’ve linked to the darach.”

Peter is more than a little stunned, “I have to admit, Argent.” He says, cradling the information that might just save him from becoming Deucalion’s mate, “I’m impressed.”

Argent almost preens Peter thinks, but he catches himself. It’s always gratifying to be acknowledged for your labor and skill, and coming from an enemy, or grudging ally now, he supposes, praise is especially sweet.

Stiles is staring too, apparently even more impressed than Peter.

“When did you make that?” Stiles gasps.

Peter smirks, “More like, how long have you had it?” There’s no way Argent managed to compile all of this within a few days even if he had help.

“After the third sacrifice.” Chris answers tersely. Peter nods. Stiles is mumbling something about the sheriff’s department and information. Peter puts the packet and the USB drive on the kitchen table and digs into his pocket stretching the bite mark scab uncomfortably. He pulls out the hagstone and readjusts his collar.

“Here.” He says, offering the hagstone to Stiles, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Stiles takes it with a disgusted look, “It’s so…”

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes, “Yes, it doesn’t exactly go with my outfits either. It’s still the best of its kind.”

Peter takes a step back to give Stiles some room and glances at Chris who is watching warily.

“What do I do with it?” Stiles asks, though he’s already putting it up to his eye.

“Look at me.” Peter orders him. He wants to see what Stiles can do without any direction, just following his own instincts, “What do you see?”

Stiles shrugs, “Just you.”

Peter cocks his head, “Look harder.” He urges.

Stiles’ face compresses in concentration, his brow furrows, he frowns and looks. It takes him a moment, either to notice or to see properly, Peter doesn’t know.

“Your eyes.” Stiles says finally, letting out the breath he’d been holding as he focused.

Peter smiles, smug and triumphant. He knew Stiles could get it. “Very good.” He praises.

Stiles is examining the hagstone with more than mere interest now and Peter knows he’s feeling it, feeling the magic in it. He takes a step forward and prompts the boy to examine the range of his senses.

“What do you feel?” he asks and he can hear Chris shifting uncomfortably in the background, but he ignores him for now.

Stiles looks up startled by his words. When he realizes how engrossed he was in the hagstone he shoves it back towards Peter abruptly. “Nothing.” He blurts out.

Peter sighs and takes the hagstone back. “It’s not going to bite you.” He says perhaps a bit more snappishly than he ought. Stiles has great potential. It’s incredibly frustrating to see him squander it out of squeamishness for the supernatural when he took his best friend becoming a werewolf in stride.

“There’s more to fear from ignorance than experience.” Peter sniffs and appeals to Argent who surely will see the wisdom in that. He receives only a glare. Typical.

There’s another briefly awkward silence and Peter reaches for his collar to readjust it over the bite scab, which is kind of itching now, until he sees Stiles eyes follow the trajectory of his hand with knowing interest.

“So,” Peter says, sliding into a chair at the table. Hopefully the other two will follow his lead, “Where did you find hex bags?” Peter spares a disdainful glance at Chris, “I assume you’ve been filled in on that count?”

The Argent gives terse nod and slides into the chair directly across from Peter. Good. No need for repetition.

“Found them in the glove compartment, if you can believe that.” Stiles replies with a scoff and remains standing.

That is a bit of a surprise. Although, “The darach clearly wasn’t expecting anyone who knew about hex bags to be involved.” That’s interesting. If that’s the case then they certainly won’t be expecting someone to be sniffing around with a hagstone: definitely an advantage.

“And inside them?” he asks, tugging his collar further up. It keeps getting caught on the scab.

Stiles shakes his head, “We didn’t have time.” Peter shrugs. One does what one can.

“You saved the lives of every werewolf there.” Argent says, to Peter’s surprise, though he seems to be having difficulty making that sound like a positive thing, “Saving the lives of your friends is something to be proud of.”

Peter grins. He hopes it cost Argent to admit that saving the lives of werewolves was a good thing. “He’s right.” Peter adds and now it’s Stiles’ turn to try not to preen. He doesn’t succeed nearly as gracefully as Chris did, but Peter enjoys it just the same.

It’s cute, even, he muses as his hand strays towards the itchy bite mark.

“Why do you keep tugging at your collar?” Stiles asks, clearly unable to contain his curiosity and once again showing his observation skills to be massively overactive. Stiles’ eyes narrow a bit and leans forward, “Are you bleeding?”

Peter looks down at the collar of his shirt and sure enough, there’s just the smallest bit of blood seeping through. He must have broken the scab a little when he got the hagstone form his pocket. At least it’s Deucalion’s shirt.

Peter looks up and sighs as Argent immediately hones in on the area narrowing his eyes and glaring even more suspiciously than usual.

Now that attention has been drawn there’s no way that Chris will let it go.

“It’s nothing.” He lies easily, pulling the collar down this time to show the bite mark in its entirety, “Just a minor…chastisement.” He says, playing the sympathy card without shame.

It quickly becomes apparent that the sympathy card isn’t going to work and may indeed have backfired.

Chris Argent explodes into action, jumping out of his chair knocking it completely over.

The next moment he’s upended Peter’s chair as well and Peter is sprawled across the floor of the kitchen. Stiles is yelling incoherently, backed up against the counters on the far side of the kitchen.

Chris is yelling too, but he’s forming actual sentences instead of just repeating ‘whoa’ over and over.

“You son of a bitch.” Chris snarls, handgun trained at Peter’s head. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” Chris sneers, “No. You thought I wouldn’t know what it meant, didn’t you?”

“Okay, let’s just calm down. No wars in my kitchen. Okay?”

“Relax, Stiles.” Peter says from the floor, smirking with a lot more bravado than he feels, “Even Argent won’t shoot me in the Sheriff’s own home.”

Chris struggles visibly to not shoot him. Stiles flaps his arms wildly.

“But what is even going on?” Stiles yells, trying to deflect the conversation from the topic of maiming.

“Of course. It all makes sense now.” Chris continues viciously, “Why would Deucalion want you, a failed beta, in his pack of alphas? He didn’t want you for pack.” Chris spits, “He wanted you for his bitch.”

Stiles is having either or a corollary or an asthma attack at this point. Whether it’s because of the gun, the air of imminent violence or just embarrassment Peter isn’t sure.

Peter snorts at the unimaginative insult. “The usual term is mate, but bitch is probably more accurate in this case.” he admits, unwilling to let Argent get a rise out of him. He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders and fastidiously straightening his clothes. He rights his chair, ignoring Chris’ gun, and seats him self in a civilized manner, like an adult, back at the kitchen table. Then he gestures for Argent to retake the seat across from him.

“Besides, he’s right.” Peter continues primly, “I didn’t think he would know what it meant.”

Chris sits less gracefully than Peter.

“Explain.” Chris manages to get through his grit teeth. Peter’s a little surprised he hasn’t ground them down to the gums yet.

“What is it you want to know?” Peter replies. “Or do you want details?” He sneers sleazily, a petty revenge for Argent’s insult.

“Whoa!” Stiles yells, “Hold on! Wait!” He says, flinging his arms out like he’s trying to ward off a physical danger. “First of all, _no details_. Just in case there was any question about that. Secondly, guns only in self-defense. Third, I still have no idea what’s going on.”

“Well, Peter is going to explain now.” Chris says, grinding his teeth even harder. His dentist must be very busy. “Aren’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, I am.” Peter says forcefully. “Though you’ll find it’s not quite as strategically relevant as you clearly imagine.”

“How so?” Chris asks. The room is humming with tension.

“Well it certainly wasn’t a strategic move on Deucalion’s part. You’re right about that.” Peter replies. “He did it for…nostalgia.” Peter shrugs. That’s as accurate as he’s willing to be on that subject. It’s not like he really knows Deucalion’s reasoning. He doubts Deucalion knows for sure.

Stiles is still making frantic confused gestures so Argent decides to explain the situation.

“This…” Chris struggles to find the words, “fool has mated with Deucalion. They’re tied together for life.”

Stiles’ entire face is red by this point at the mention of mating. Peter snorts. Chris looks like he’s just realized that, according to the legends, killing Peter should kill Deucalion and he’s pretty damn sure Argent won’t give a shit about having to go through him to get to the alpha of alphas. Best nip that thought in the bud.

“We’re not mated,” He says petulantly, “just engaged.” Watching the muscles in Argent’s jaw jump with spiteful glee.

“Ok, sure, but who cares? So they’re werewolf-married. That’s just a better cover, right?” Stiles asks sounding extremely dubious and inching over towards Argent’s side of the table.

“It’s a supernatural bond. If one of them is killed the other dies with them. There’s nothing that gains us, but it puts a powerful alpha in Peter Hale’s pocket. An alpha with a really good incentive to keep him alive.”

Stiles is looking sufficiently suspicious. He’s still a little naïve for Peter’s taste, still a little terrified of unknown implications and far reaching consequences. Peter rolls his eyes.

“You want to know what mating really means?” Peter says, leaning forwards over the table to give an air of intimacy and secrecy.

Stiles is absolutely engaged by the whole thing. He’s watching Peter avidly. Peter risks a glance at Chris who is suspicious, but equally intrigued. He holds them in suspense for another moment.

“No one knows.” He reveals suddenly, leaning back with a wide shrug. “There hasn’t been a mated pair in centuries. _No one_ mates anymore.” He glares pointedly at Chris, “Because it’s _insane_.”

“No.” Chris says, of course. Typical Argent. It must be some sort of werewolf-negation reflex.

“Yes.” Peter says viciously, “ _Nobody_ mates anymore. It’s an outdated dysfunctional mode of pairing off in which both partners become so blindingly dependent on each other that the small advantages it gives are completely outweighed by the sudden mental instability incurred by both parties. I have no idea why Deucalion, alpha of alphas, obsessed with control, would ever choose to cede any of his tightly guarded sovereignty to someone…” he thinks is disloyal, Peter almost finishes, but instead says, “…like me.”

“And why did _you_ choose it?” Chris asks somehow managing to make a question sound accusing.

Peter’s eyes glow bright blue as he slowly turns to face Chris. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I did _this_ to myself?” He jerks his hand towards the dark bruise of a handprint around his throat, “That I want to be irrevocably tied to him? Without any possibility of escape?”

Peter suddenly realizes that his claws are fully out and his fangs are extended and Chris is aiming the gun at his heart but there’s this pained expression on his face and Stiles is just gaping at him, his face a rictus of surprise but his eyes look…he looks like he might cry.

Peter closes his eyes for a long moment and sits slowly, “If you think I had a real choice,” he says calming himself, regaining control, “Then _you_ are the fool.”

Argent watches him for a long moment. They stare at each other, searching, weighing and then, Argent holsters his gun.

Peter doesn’t gloat even though he really, really wants to, but this is too important. Instead he cocks his head in acknowledgment of the gesture.

“Excellent. Now,” Peter says, “down to strategy. When I find the darach we’ll have to move fast. I’ll have an extremely difficult time lying to Deucalion about the darach. Now, Deuce should be able to kill him once we identify him unless he realizes we know his identity and flees.”

“So you want us to contain him.” Chris guesses. “How do we manage that?”

“Mistletoe should do it.” Peter says. “Deaton will have some and he can get more.”

“You want us to make a circle of mistletoe around the entire town?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“No,” Peter rolls his eyes, obviously not, “Once we know who it is we should be able to narrow down the area by a lot. I’ll have to be in visual distance to confirm, so we’ll know where they are. We can set up a perimeter.”

Stiles is nodding, but Chris doesn’t look convinced.

“That will be risky. If he’s on the move it will be difficult to pin him down. If he notices you he’ll kill you and escape. If you can even find him.”

“I will find him.” Peter interrupts. “You can count on that.”

Chris snorts. Peter gives him an ugly look.

“Why mistletoe?” Stiles deflects again. He’s good at that, Peter makes note.

He shrugs in response, “Why wolfsbane?” He parries rhetorically, “It’s just the substance that gives the desired effect.”

“Ok.” Stiles says with mild finality, “Sounds like a plan.” He looks to Chris and Peter in turn who are both sort of still staring each other down, each one determined not to blink before the other one does.

Chris nods sharply and it’s done. That’s their plan. It has been decided.

Of course, that’s not the plan at all. It’s just the closest thing to the real plan that Peter can tell them. Luckily, since they’re not werewolves and he’s very good at lying, they don’t know that. It’s all for the best, anyway.

Chris and Peter stand simultaneously.

“Right, so, uh…” Stiles mumbles awkwardly. He’s obviously not a fan of fraught silences, “I’ll just see you guys out, then.”

Peter nods graciously and follows the boy through the door to the hallway to the front door with Argent right behind him. It’s uncomfortable to have his back to the man, but it’s probably necessary to show a little bit of trust.

“Thank you.” Peter says as he reaches the doorway. Stiles has flung the door open to let them pass in front of him. “For letting us use your house as a meeting place.”

Stiles shrugs and rolls his eyes a little. Peter grins. He hadn’t exactly given the boy much choice on the matter. Still, manners are important.

Peter gives a half wave to Stiles and a glance to Chris before he moves through the doorway, but he’s brought up short a step out of the house.

“How long?” Stiles asks out of the blue.

“What?” Peter asks, turning back to face the young man, Argent standing right next to him in the doorway.

“An engagement implies,” Stiles grasps for a less animalistic word, but fails, “mating eventually, right? Do you set a date?”

Peter shakes his head and looks up at the sky, “Twenty four days. The full moon.” He cocks his head and gives Stiles a wry grin, “Of course.”

Chris looks as grim as ever. Perhaps he knew about the full moon tradition and had guessed the date already. Maybe he just didn’t care.

Stiles, however, looks extremely uncomfortable, but he visibly steels himself, likely marking an imaginary calendar just as Peter had done this morning.

“Don’t worry. It should be over by then.” Peter says with a grin he doesn’t feel. Stiles gives a stiff nod and Argent passes him with a quiet thanks. The front door to the Stilinski residence closes after him.

Argent heads right towards him.

“And if it isn’t over by then?” Argent asks him gruffly as they stride incidentally in the same direction.

“Then you can put me down yourself.” Peter replies flippantly. “Two for one. Special offer.”

Chris looks completely incredulous, though Peter doesn’t know why. Perhaps he had sounded a bit too sincere about the offer, but in any case it seems like Argent’s face can’t bear to have any expression besides a serious frown for more than a few seconds.

Chris stares hard for a moment and then, to Peter’s immense surprise, his expression softens and his question is quietly spoken, “Can you do what’s necessary when the time comes?”

Peter looks over at him, surprised at the implied concern. But it must be concern for their scheme, “I’ll do whatever I have to.” he says. He actually already has, but that’s not really any of Argent’s business.

“Like I said,” Peter says, passing Argent as he stops in front of his vehicle. “This should all be over by then.”

One way or another.

 

Peter gets four blocks away when Argent’s monstrous SUV comes tearing around the corner. Peter looks around quickly and, finding the street to be empty, extends his claws and prepares to run if necessary.

Surprisingly the passenger side window rolls down to reveal Stiles and behind him in the driver’s seat, of course, Chris Argent.

Peter approaches cautiously, but quickly.

“Deaton’s been taken by the darach.” Stiles says seriously, sounding suddenly like an adult. “Get in.”

Peter does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget the (sometimes NSFW) blog dedicated to this story (is that narcissistic of me?). Anyway, you can find photosets, gifs (more gifs coming. I'm still learning :D) and you can find out what a dichroic glass hagstone might look like! :D Super Cool! http://sacrificetocheckmate.tumblr.com/


	20. In Which Peter and Chris Solve Crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much Deucalion, but lots of Chris-Peter interactions. Hmmmmm. Hope you all are enjoying! :D And let me know your favorite part so far, if you like!

“I suppose I should mention: don’t tell Derek or the rest of the pack about the mating thing. There will be consequences.” Peter says for the benefit of Stiles. Argent will ignore his threats.

Argent snorts, “Embarrassed?”

“Mortified.” Peter replies because he knows that Argent won’t expect him to be open about his feelings and he does so love putting people off.

“So, what’s the word on Deaton?” Peter changes the subject to a more pressing, less personal topic.

“The darach’s taking healers.” Stiles says, “A doctor from the ER and now Deaton. He called Scott and told him he was going to be taken, which, considering he probably could have told us a lot more, is pretty annoying but there you go. That’s basically all we know so far.”

That’s unsettling. How does the darach even know that Deaton is connected to their group? At first glance or even second glance no one would think that Deaton was involved with the supernatural. He supposes that Deaton may simply have been taken because of his connection with Scott but that’s a little too much coincidence for Peter’s taste. Especially given that Deaton was Scott’s emissary and a spark.

“How did he know he was going to be taken?” Peter muses out loud.

“Hopefully we’ll find out.” Chris says, “We’re heading to the clinic now.”

Peter hums an acknowledgment, sinking deep into thought. Hopefully without Deaton there he’ll be able to get into the clinic. Mountain ash can be finicky when its caster is away. Of course he’ll have to wait until Scott and Derek and whatever other werewolves have tagged along for this excursion have exited. He doesn’t really want to risk Deucalion’s wrath by getting the scent of the other pack on him. Things will be bad enough if he has to stay out past his curfew. He rolls his eyes at the very thought.

They pull up to the clinic in a short time; Beacon Hills is not a very large town. They all step out of the car and Stiles immediately makes for the clinic. Argent waits for Peter to make his direction clear. Not very surprising: the hunter will want to keep him in his sights. After a few more fieldtrips Peter will get to start making suggestive comments. It will be so much fun to watch the hunter squirm.

Unfortunately it seems that they’ll be waiting outside for a while Peter decides scenting the air and noting Scott’s motorcycle haphazardly parked in the lot. Maybe if it were one of the other betas he could risk it, but not Scott, not the true alpha. That would be sure do set Deucalion on edge. Hell, it might even be worse than Derek. At least it’s unlikely that Scott will smell the blood on him or understand the mating bite if he did see it.

He turns to Chris, “I’ll be waiting out here for a while.”

Chris glares, “How long?”

“Until Scott leaves the premises.” Peter says, leaning against the hood of the SUV and trying to resist the urge to scratch the scab of the bite mark.

Argent sighs, angrily of course, as if Peter was put on this earth just to cause him minor inconveniences, which isn’t that far from inaccurate, but still.

“So.” Peter says, breaking the awkward silence for a little awkward conversation, “have you and your daughter admitted to each other that you’re hopeless busybodies when it comes to the supernatural?”

Argent growls and glares.

Boring. He’ll have to try harder next time.

“So what exactly are we going to do about Deucalion after he kills the darach?” Argent asks.

Peter goes still and cautious, “Leave Deucalion to me. There’s no way we can defeat him in a fight. I promise you that. Once he has what he wants he’ll leave.”

“And you’re sure about that.” Chris says voice deep and cunning.

Peter glances over and Chris is staring straight at him, not angry, but fierce.

“Will you go with him?” Chris asks and Peter has to add another notch of respect for the hunter. He had always thought of the Argents and of Chris as bishops or knights with a few pawns. Good for the middle and beginning, but somehow never holding out until the endgame. They’re middle distance thinkers, but this from Chris now, this is endgame thinking.

“Only if I have to.” Peter admits. It’s the answer Chris would assume regardless of the answer he gave. If Deucalion weren’t so powerful and weren’t as murderously unpredictable then maybe Chris would think otherwise. As things are there’s no way Peter would be able to steal alpha status from Deucalion and joining his pack permanently seems almost as dangerous for a beta as being his enemy.

Peter taps the hood of the SUV absently, getting impatient. He huffs a frustrated noise out and then flips out his phone, tired of waiting.

“What’s going on in there?” Peter says into the phone before Stiles even has time answer, “Have you found anything?”

“Ok, we’ve only been in here for like a minute and I’m trying to comfort my best friend whose boss just got kidnapped, in case you forgot.” Stiles snaps at him.

“I haven’t forgotten. I was just thinking we might want to skip the comforting and get to the rescuing. If you’re not doing anything useful in there then get out of the way and let the adults take care of it.”

There’s some mumbling over the phone and then silence. Peter moves the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Then he turns to Argent who is glare-watching him as usual.

“He hung up on me.” Peter says huffily. The little brat.

Argent snorts out a derisive laugh. The sound of the clinic door opening distracts them both and Stiles and Scott exit making eye contact with the two men and then going to wait by Scott’s motorcycle.

“Well, come on, Argent.” Peter says cheerily. Investigating is kind of fun when it’s not his life on the line. “Time to do some sleuthing.”

“You’re enjoying this.” Argent says and Peter is mildly surprised that Chris has bothered to pick up on that.

“Yes.” He says, “Saving people, investigating, maybe I missed my calling as a detective.” Peter replies.

Argent scoffs, “No, you just like showing off.”

Hm! Argent appears to be much more perceptive than Peter’s given him credit for.

The little bell rings cheerily, a counterpoint to the ugliness of the scene of a crime, as they enter the clinic.

Peter takes a deep breath, but everything smells pretty much the same as before. Of course there are the smells of strangers who have actually come for the veterinary business, but there are no strange supernatural odors that Peter can detect.

At least there aren’t any in the foyer. Peter steps closer to the mountain ash barrier that is the counter. He cautiously puts a hand out to it, testing it.

There’s an uncomfortable buzzing in the wood, but nothing like the paralyzing weakness that he had felt before when he had come here in pursuit of Scott. He lets out a sigh of relief and turns back to Argent.

“Come on.” Peter says, gently pushing the gate inwards, “Let’s see what can be seen.”

Not much, as it turns out. There doesn’t appear to have been any struggle and the back door is wide open. It does make sense though. Even if the darach hadn’t immediately incapacitated him Deaton would have known that he stood no chance in a fight.

“Look at this.” Argent calls him over, voice deep and serious.

At one of the workbenches Chris is bent over looking at a large brown moth.

“Ugh.” Peter shudders and Chris gives him an alarmed look. “I hate moths.” Peter explains.

Chris rolls his eyes in disgust. “Well? Does it mean anything or is it just a moth?”

Peter examines the moth closer. It’s very large. One of the largest Peter’s ever seen outside of documentaries and textbooks. He shakes his head, “Well, it doesn’t look native, does it?”

“Not that I know of.” Argent agrees.

Peter hums and dredges up his knowledge of animal symbolism.

“Moths are symbols of otherworldliness, messengers from the other side, symbols of subtlety, shadows, dreams, secrets, intuition and concealment and a few more.” He shrugs, “That’s all I can remember.”

Argent is just staring at him incredulous.

“Oh, is that all?” he says sarcastically.

Peter frowns at him, “Looks, it’s not exactly a map, ok? And the supernatural doesn’t always translate well to the natural world.”

Chris grunts a grudging acknowledgement of his statement. He obviously thinks the whole thing is a load of meaningless crap. The boor. Just because it’s complicated and nuanced doesn’t mean it’s useless. Perhaps he was right about hunters lacking endgame instincts.

Peter leaves his vengeful musings to watch Argent dig into his jacket pocket and relieve a folded up rectangle of paper.

“Speaking of maps.” Chris says, unfolding what Peter must now assume is a map, “This is an actual map.” He says, laying it out on the counter in front of them. “Here are where all the bodies have been found and extrapolating from that…” Chris lets the rest of the sentence hang, apparently trusting Peter to fill in his own blanks.

Peter does and it’s absolutely beautiful. “Oh, Chris.” He breathes, “This is…this is…” Oh, this is exactly what they needed. Everything is so clear. “Oh, I could kiss you for this.” He says vehemently, missing the increase in the hunter’s heart rate in his jubilance.

“Do you know what these are?” Peter asks. “These lines that you’ve drawn.”

Chris shrugs, “It’s just the pattern the killings are taking.”

“They’re called telluric currents.” Peter almost starts to go on a fairly longwinded explanation, then he realizes that he needs to tell Stiles as well and he hates repeating himself. He gathers the map up, too fast for Chris to stop him and heads for the exit. “Come on.”

This could lead them _right to the darach’s hunting grounds_. It’s a little inconvenient, since, to be honest since Peter wants, needs the darach to finish his rituals, his sacrifices. Deaton is too valuable, too close to them to let the darach take him.

Argent follows, growling close on his heels. Peter heads straight for Stiles and Scott. Damn the stupid rules. This is important and Deucalion is just going to have to deal with it. If he wants Peter to hunt a darach the least he can do is allow him some collaboration.

Scott and Stiles look up as he strides over to them. Stiles comes between them arms flung wide, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Scott backs off a few steps as well.

How cute. They’re trying to protect him.

He waves them off. “It’s fine. This is more important.” After that he ignores their hesitations, spreading the map out on the seat of the motorcycle. Chris catches up to them by this point, glancing quickly at Scott’s proximity, but making no comment.

“Look at what Christopher has found.” Peter says with a grin. Argent growls, of course and Peter may or may not like it when he makes that noise. Getting him riled up is certainly entertaining.

“See these lines. These are called telluric currents.” Peter explains. “They’re electromagnetic, well, mostly electric, but they’re still energy and for some reason since they’re such an incredibly low frequency humans can use them, sometimes, to power the supernatural.”

Peter grins. Oh, how he loves being right, being smart and especially being smarter than everyone else. Everyone is sort of just gawping for the moment.

“Any idea when the sacrifices are taking place?” Peter asks Chris.

“Some time between 8 and 1, usually.” Chris answers promptly and then looks immediately disgruntled by his instinct to answer a voice of authority without question. Like a good little soldier. Peter smirks.

“But at night?” he clarifies.

“Yes, at night.”

Peter nods. “The currents are diurnal. They actually flow in different directions during the day and night. So, if we follow the line from the place he was taken, here, pole-ward,” Peter runs his finger along the line traced onto the map. He continues until he reaches a point on the line where two currents cross each other. “Here. What is that?”

Stiles looks up at Scott with an expression of both extreme annoyance and utter resign, “The bank vault.”

Of course, Peter thinks, resisting the urge to smack himself on the forehead. He suddenly understands Stiles’ expression a lot more.

“Right.” Peter says. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go.”

He expects an ambush, but in the end Deaton is just hanging there from his arms in a circle of mountain ash which Stiles easily dispels. It seems an odd way to get the suffocated effect of the threefold death. It’s slow. There’s more chance to miss the perfect timing of the threefold death and, obviously, more time for the victim to get rescued. It seems unnecessarily cruel.

He supposes he should just be glad of it, but he can’t quite let it go.

Deaton has no information, though he does spare Peter a knowing glance in recognition of his presence in the rescue party.

Peter glances at his watch. It’s not as late as he thought it would be. He’ll make curfew easily, so at least that’s something.

“Think we should call Derek?” he hears Scott ask Stiles quietly.

Stiles shrugs, “I don’t know why we would. Even when we’re helping he just huffs and puffs and shoves you into stuff.”

Peter stifles a choked laugh. Typical Derek.

“Yeah, but he should probably know about the telluric currents, right? In case something happens and it’s important.”

Stiles scoffs, “Yeah, maybe, but he’s too busy trying to get busy with our English teacher.”

Now that is interesting.

“Who would this English teacher be?” Peter asks, approaching as innocently as possible when it’s obvious that he was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Ms. Blake. She was in the school when Cora and Boyd went crazy. Derek saved her life.” Stiles shrugs, “Pretty sure she saw the whole werewolf thing, so now they’re…” and Stiles shrugs with a wide gesture of crossing his arms.

“Hmm.” Peter hums, looking away.

“Why? What is that? Is that important?” Stiles asks.

“Just looking out for my nephew.” He says innocently, “Derek doesn’t have the best judgment when it comes to women.”

Scott and Stiles look at him suspiciously. He shrugs under their scrutiny.

“Well, I should be going now anyway. Call if someone else gets kidnapped.” He says flippantly and turns away only to startle at the presence of Chris Argent right behind him.

“Let me give you a ride.” Argent says with a cold smile.

“That’s not necessary.” Peter says graciously and attempts to slide past the man between him and Deaton’s car.

Argent’s hand slams into the car barring his path with an arm. “I insist.” Argent says, smile widening and head tilting slightly. The boys are watching, tense. Stiles is clearly ready to dodge behind cover, a good instinct for a human to have, and Scott looks like he’s going to try to break up the fight.

“Fine.” Peter says. He’s not really interested in getting shot and he is interested in what Argent has to say. Well, as long as it isn’t just the usual threats. That would be boring. “How very kind of you.”

Argent is satisfied with that and Peter follows him to the SUV leaving the skeptical looking boys behind.

“I can’t even decide whose body we’re going to have to look for later.” He hears Stiles whisper and laughs quietly. Argent still hears him though.

“What?” he says.

Peter shakes his head. “The boys are concerned.”

“They should be.” Chris says seriously, “Deaton came very close to dying today.”

Peter rolls his eyes. What a downer. “That’s not really what I meant.” He replies. He’s not going to mention the part about them being likely to kill each other because he too is a little concerned and he doesn’t really want to bring it up right away. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he isn’t really sure who would kill whom.

Chris opens the door for Peter in a gesture that is anything but chivalrous and Peter enters the SUV with a raised brow and an ironic, “What a gentleman.” Before Argent slams the door on him.

He’s getting a little tired of playing games with his allies. Especially the allies that he’s on equal footing with.

Argent starts the car and they’re off. The hunter is silent, but Peter waits patiently. He highly doubts that this is just about carpooling even though they do happen to live in the same building, but if it is then Peter has no problem with it and he’s certainly not going to make an effort to make small talk.

“So,” Argent says, taking a roundabout route to the apartments Peter notices with suspicion. “What’s your real plan?”

Peter looks at Argent suspiciously. He seems utterly calm. His eyes are on the road, but Peter is sure there’s a gun under his jacket.

“Whatever do you mean, Christopher?” Peter replies smoothly.

“Come on.” Chris replies, sounding more cajoling than Peter’s ever heard, which isn’t very cajoling, but it’s not pure anger and smoldering frustration, which is weird, “If the darach is as powerful as you say it is and Deucalion is the same then there’s no way we can beat them.”

“Yes.” Peter says carefully, “That’s why the plan is to pit them against each other.”

Chris snorts, “You can’t expect me to believe that you’re going to be content with staying Deucalion’s beta if he does win.”

“And why not?” Peter questions mildly. “Deucalion’s actually never tried to kill me, unlike some people I could name.” Alright, so it’s a little bit of a stretch, but it’s more truth than fiction.

“And once the darach is gone, he’ll leave. Just like that?” Argent asks, obviously skeptical.

Peter hesitates. “I can’t be completely sure, of course, but there’s no reason for him to stay here. He has his own territory.” He shrugs and sighs, “Frankly, I’m hoping they do each other in. If one survives it should be easy enough to take them out afterwards. They’ll be weak, injured: easy prey.”

Chris looks at him again with skepticism, which is odd, because this is actually the most plausible thing for Peter to do. No one really knows about his…affection for Deucalion. They should be assuming that he’ll try to steal the alpha’s power.

“And what about the other alphas?” Chris asks.

“I’m working on that.” Peter says with vicious glee, “They’re not a very tight knit group. It’s been child’s play to alienate them from Deuce so far. They should be fairly easy to distract. Besides,” Peter adds, “Without Deucalion they aren’t that much of a threat. We have Derek and Scott for power and you and I for strategy.” He smirks, “I’d give us pretty good odds.”

Argent snorts a derisive laugh again. He’s not a very cheery person.

“You know I’d believe you if it weren’t for the mating.” Argent says and suddenly the tension in the car skyrockets. “Even if you really thought that Deucalion would just leave after killing the darach you would still end up mated to him.”

“Well, you have to admit he’s not bad to look at.” Peter tries.

“Don’t bullshit me, Peter.” Argent snaps. “You have a plan to get out of the mating. You have a plan to detach yourself from Deucalion.”

Peter gets the feeling that he’s not going to be allowed of the car until he admits that Chris is right.

“Fine. You’re right.” Peter says, “I do have a plan, because I don’t want to be mated to someone who’s holding me hostage.” He casually reminds Argent.

“I’m warning you as a favor because you stopped the alpha pack from running rampant through Beacon Hills at your own expense.” The hunter growls through clenched teeth. “If you become an alpha again I will put you down.”

Peter fights the urge to strangle the man, but he should probably be grateful. If it’s obvious that he’s hiding something at least Argent is on completely the wrong track about what he’s hiding. He’s not going to become an alpha again, not if he can help it. It’s far easier to maneuver behind the scenes as a beta and that has always been Peter’s strength.

So Peter nods graciously, “I appreciate the warning, Christopher.”

Let the hunter think that Deuce is his real target. Red herrings can be so effective.

Argent shakes his head and they’ve finally arrived at the apartment building. Peter exits the SUV and Chris follows suit.

“We’re on the same side on this one, Hale.” Chris calls towards Peter’s retreating back.

Peter stops for a moment. It’s true that Argent has always followed his code of honor to the letter. The fact that he can bring himself to work with werewolves to confront a greater evil is something Peter has a lot of grudging respect for. This doesn’t change the fact that, in Argent’s eyes, by the laws of his code, both Deucalion and Peter are as good as dead. They’re both targets, even if Peter’s been granted a brief reprieve for whatever reason, probably his usefulness.

“Until we’re not, is that it?” Peter asks.

Argent just glares at him. A soft, disappointed glare that makes Peter more uncomfortable than all his other glares ever did. He shakes his head.

“It’s up to you, Peter.” Argent says vaguely, as if Peter wasn’t already on the hunter’s kill list.

Peter enters the building as Chris drives off for some other errand and Peter notes that the elevator is now working, which is nice. He rides up alone and tries to subtly sniff himself to see how much of Scott’s scent still lingers.

He sighs. Probably too much, and then there’s Argent whose scent is most certainly recognizable on Peter. At least he has the list to justify that little alliance. He sighs and the elevator gives a bright chime to let him know that he’s once again reached the entrance to the penthouse.

Back into the lion’s den.


	21. In Which More Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Deuce/Peter! More sex YAY! And Peter doesn't faint! (spoilers, I guess?) :P Enjoy!

Peter tries to remain positive as he unlocks the penthouse. Maybe Deuce won’t be home and he can take a quick shower. It only takes a few seconds to determine that this isn’t the case once he opens the door and takes a deep breath.

Deucalion is most definitely within.

“Honey, I’m home!” Peter calls as he hangs up his jacket and removes his shoes.

“In the living room, Peter.” He hears Deuce reply. He follows the hall to the living room practically skipping down the steps with nonchalantly to the couch where Deucalion sits listening to…a book Peter thinks from what he can hear before it powers down.

To Peter’s surprise it’s actually nice getting home. Well, home is a bit of a stretch in this situation, but he’s had a long, stressful day. It’s nice to have somewhere to come back to, a place where he can rest protected from the outside world, a place where there is someone waiting for him who actually cares if he lives or dies.

And, wow, that’s not a depressing thought at all.

Deucalion strides over to him, an unusual gait for the man, and Peter tenses in preparation of some form of reprimand. Instead Deuce careens into him crushing their bodies together with a strong arm around his waist. Peter lets out an alarmed, muffled yelp as Deucalion presses their mouths together and starts thoroughly taking Peter apart with his tongue.

It’s so sudden and not at all what he was expecting but he melts under the weight of Deucalion’s hands and the heat of his mouth.

He could get used to this sort of “welcome home”.

Deuce isn’t stopping, though. He barely pauses to let them take breaths and Peter is lightheaded by the time Deuce relents.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Deuce says voice vibrating straight through Peter to his hardening cock as Deucalion’s hand slips under his shirt traveling over and up the planes of his body, shoving the fabric up around his wrist. Peter is still gasping for air.

“I could get used to this kind of homecoming.” Peter says, reiterating his thoughts from a moment ago.

Deucalion buries his face against Peters shoulder, nuzzling the bite mark and inhaling deeply. “You don’t smell like you’re mine.” Deucalion growls into his neck, reaching further under his shirt and slicing down the middle from the inside out.

Peter shivers and arches away from the razor sharp claws.

“That was your shirt.” Peter mentions as Deucalion tears the remains off his torso.

“So I know where to get a replacement.” Deucalion replies smoothly. Peter shrugs, as long as they aren’t _his_ shirts.

Deucalion’s hand skims gently over Peter’s shoulder to hover reverently above the scab. Peter shivers and Deucalion smiles.

“You’re mine, Peter.” He says, pressing close. “ _This_ proves it.” His fingers brush over the bite mark and Peter bares his throat without hesitation. “Mine in every way. My beta, my mate.” His voice deepens to a low growl and he presses Peter further back until Peter has to yield and take a step back—right into Deucalion’s foot which had clearly been placed there to trip him.

Deucalion doesn’t let him fall, though, so Peter might forgive him later.

Deuce lowers him gently to the steps, hovering over him braced on hands to either side of his chest and an insistent knee between his thighs.

Peter watches Deucalion breathless at the determined look in his eyes. The sincerity of his desire is painful in light of the recent discovery that he’s possessed.

Peter grabs Deuce with a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down for a harsh kiss, an aggressive move that earns him a growl.

He bites into the kiss, brutal, violent and sudden, breaking it once Deuce gets the idea and begins to respond in kind.

“Make me forget.” He growls into Deuce’s ear claws growing just slightly, tugging at the back of Deucalion’s neck, perhaps even drawing blood. _Make me forget that I’m not the only one here under duress whether you know it or not_ Peter thinks as Deucalion looks him in the eye, examining, searching. Whatever he sees, whatever he thinks Peter is asking, he does as Peter wishes.

Peter’s hold on his neck is broken instantly and his wrist is pinned to a step. Deuce’s other hand is in his hair pulling his head back, exposing his throat to his alpha.

It feels so right, so good to submit and he has to. It’s necessary. He doesn’t have a choice. He doesn’t.

Peter growls aggressively and snaps at Deucalion until he shoves Peter hard against the stairs. Peter struggles still kicking and writhing, scratching bloody furrows down Deucalion’s side with his one free hand.

Deuce arches and answers with coal burning eyes and a deep, rumbling growl, rolling slowly through his chest and into Peter, like thunder on a summer night.

He flips Peter onto his belly dragging his arms behind his back harshly pressing Peter’s hips into the floor with his own and spreading Peter’s legs with his thighs. He is pinning Peter with his whole body.

Peter wriggles in the alphas tight grip, but that’s all he can do. He’s been effectively and efficiently immobilized.

“Is this what you want, Peter?” Deucalion says sounding altogether too calm for the hard line of his cock pressing against Peter’s ass through their jeans.

“You want me to put you on your belly, hold you down, and take what’s mine?” Deucalion asks, voice close and dark in his ear.

Peter shivers and shoves up against his grip, but it’s useless. He’s helpless.

And it feels so good.

He hadn’t realized until now how out of control he had been feeling, trying to juggle all his different roles, giving little pieces of information here and there, keeping track of who knows what and what they’ll do and how to play off their insecurities. Every move he makes, every motion of his hands, every glance he makes, watched by his allies and enemies. He’s been fighting so hard to keep everything together, to keep everything under control.

Here, now, like this, he doesn’t have to be in control. He can kick and scream and writhe and fight back as hard as he likes, but it won’t make a difference. He can’t win. He can’t even fight. He presses his face against the cool hardwood floor, calm suddenly, breathing slowing and evening out from his panicked panting earlier. He melts in Deucalion’s grip, relaxing into his control.

“Alpha.” He exhales, a sigh of submission.

Deucalion groans above him, biting lightly at the side of his throat.

“Mine, Peter.” He says into Peter’s neck, “You’re mine.”

“Yeah, fuck.” Peter grunts as Deuce thrusts against him. “Please.” He writhes urging Deucalion to take what he wants.

“Yes.” Deucalion hisses, mouth pressed against the back of Peter’s neck. He grips Peter’s wrists with one hand and uses the other to snake around Peter’s waist to the buckle of his belt unbuckling it and shoving his pants and underwear down quickly and Peter is glad that he took his shoes and socks off at the door as he struggles to kick the clothes the rest of the way off.

“You’re so beautiful, Peter.” Deuce says almost mournfully, leaning back to look at him now that he’s naked, a counterpoint, once again, to Deucalion’s fully dressed state. A hot, wide hand comes to rest on his hip, thumb stroking absently, sweeping across his skin and Peter can almost feel his blush bloom and spread across his face, hot and embarrassed by Deucalion’s earnest appreciation.

Deucalion presses down into him, covering him, hot and solid at his back. “Stay here, Peter. Just like this.” And the hands holding his wrists tightly captive give a squeeze and then slowly release him.

Deucalion moves and is gone and it _hurts_. It’s cold and lonely and suddenly Peter feels exposed and embarrassed and a little afraid. He holds his breath waiting, closes his eyes, listening and pretends that he does not exist.

Then Deucalion is back, warm and alive behind him, praising him for following orders, nuzzling at his nape, pressing kisses down his spine, surrounding him and keeping him together and Peter can breathe again.

“My Peter.” Deucalion is mumbling into his skin and “You’re so very good.” And “my obedient beta” hands skimming down his sides and flanks and Peter preens under attentions. Deucalion pulls Peter’s hips back against his own and he’s naked now and Peter whimpers at the feel of skin against skin.

Deucalion groans close to his ear, “The sounds you make, Peter.”

“Fuck, Deuce.” Peter gasps, “Fuck me.”

Deuce thrusts against him with a growl at his words, hot hands grabbing his crossed wrists again and Peter can feel himself melting under that inescapable grip once more.

Peter hears the telltale snap of a cap and licks his lips between his quick breaths. Good. Deuce is getting on with it. Peter cants his hips up and Deucalion’s grip on his wrists tightens impulsively.

“Come on. Come on.” Peter urges him. He wants it fast and hard and rough and maybe to hurt a little. He wants to be overwhelmed, so full of Deucalion that he forgets himself.

“Peter.” Deuce says softly against his back as a long, slick finger slowly slides into his ass. It’s so good but Peter wants more and he wants it now and Deucalion _is taking his sweet fucking time._

Peter throws his head back and pants harshly, spreading his thighs further and tugging against Deucalion’s grip. He growls and snaps at Deucalion when he doesn’t quicken the pace or add another finger. Anything to push the alpha into giving it to him harder and faster and now.

“Come on.” Peter growls, twisting around to try to catch Deuce’s eye, to beg him that way too.

Deucalion only hums contentedly against his back and works another finger in next to the first, but so slowly, _so fucking slow_. Peter tries to push back onto the fingers but Deuce bares down on him, pinning him further with his weight.

Peter gives out a frustrated yell. Deucalion only chuckles against him and Peter shoves up ineffectively with a shoulder.

“You’re such an asshole.” Peter grumbles as Deucalion hums his assent and keeps up his steady, slow rhythm torturing Peter and Peter can do nothing and he’s so fucking hard. He needs something more, god, just a touch. If his hands were free—if he could just get Deuce to _fuck him already._

Peter loses track of time. Deucalion is determined to drive him crazy. At least he’s stretching him now, instead of just the slow steady finger fucking, but it’s not fingers that Peter wants. It’s not the thought of fingers that are making his dick leak onto the step beneath him.

Deuce finally begins to add a third finger. Peter is ready to scream in frustration. The two fingers continue their torture, gliding in and out easily now and the third finger teases him. Sometimes it breaches him, just barely, along with the other two and sometimes it’s just the two. His legs and back strain to get some sort of leverage, _anything_ , but he’s so fucking helpless.

“Stop teasing.” Peter growls trying to break free in more earnest than before, but it’s still useless. He’s so hot. He needs more. He needs it. He needs to be filled.

Deucalion takes pity on him, of a sort, and picks up the pace with all three fingers, filling him and it’s so close to what he needs and his hips are stuttering weakly into Deucalion’s hand, but it’s not enough and he’s so hard. He needs more, just more, fuck, please.

“Soon, Peter.” Deucalion says voice deep and rough with desire and Peter realizes that his thoughts are falling out of his mouth, a litany of please’s and more’s and fuck’s.

Eventually his words run dry and he just whimpers and tries to hold on and ride through the pleasure, but then Deuce changes his angle and his fingers find that most pleasure spot with alarming accuracy and it startles a soft scream out of Peter and he breaks.

“Please, Deuce, fuck. Please. Please. Please.” His voice is hoarse with pleading and desperation. He can’t keep still, but he can’t move, just writhe in Deuce’s grip and tense and tremble.

“I love your whimpering, Peter.” Deucalion says, licking the drops of sweat from Peter’s straining neck.

“Please. Please.” Peter can only respond as Deucalion keeps him on the edge. “Just fuck me.”

“Who do you belong to, Peter?” is Deucalion’s response. He nibbles at Peter’s trembling jaw.

“You! You. Please.” Peter pants against the floor. He knows the answer to that one and he’ll give Deuce anything just to please fuck him already, “I’m yours! I belong to you. Your beta. Your mate.” Anything to get Deuce inside him, to get a hand on his cock.

Deuce growls low and grabs Peter’s hips, lining his cock up with Peter’s slick, well-stretched hole so quickly that Peter doesn’t even realize his hands are free for a moment. But then Deuce is pushing in so big and hot and right. Peter trembles under him, mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back, every piece of him taut in ecstasy.

He’s so full, with Deucalion over him, arms moving to encircle him, small gentle thrusts jolting through him like breathing and he’s caught in Deuce’s embrace again, arms pinned to his sides and then, finally, _please, please, oh god please,_ Deucalion moves, hips crashing against Peter’s ass, fast and hard and just the way Peter wanted it and it’s only pleasure. It’s all pleasure and it feels so good, but he can’t reach his cock and he’s going to explode if he can’t come but he’s so wrecked all he can do is beg, “Please. Please. Please.”

Deucalion’s hand travels down so close, _please, please, please_ , “Who do you belong to, Peter?”

“You! Yours, Deuce, I’m yours.” Peter sobs as the hand wraps around him, slick and hot and too much, _too much, please. Please_.

His back arches and his knees give out and he comes over Deuce’s fist still stroking him firmly and full of Deuce’s cock.

He comes _howling_.

He’s limp and pliable as Deuce finishes, fucking him hard and fast and deep until he sinks in and pulls Peter tight against him, hips twitching gently deeper filling Peter with his cum. Peter’s head falls limply down and he lets Deuce gently release his hold and lower them to the ground and arranges them on their sides on the hardwood floor. They lie together winded and panting in a sweaty embrace.

Peter is happy to lie there, even though it’s the floor. His muscles are trembling and spent and he couldn’t move if he wanted to. He doesn’t even want to. Deuce’s hand slides up and down his hip, sticky with lube and cum, an unconscious gesture of reassurance. Deuce curls around him firmly and Peter feels very small even though he and Deuce are roughly the same size in most ways.

Peter feels brittle. He feels empty, but not in the way he wanted to. He had thought that he could expel and banish his torrential emotions this way. Peter levers himself slowly up to an elbow, determined to escape his feelings, but Deucalion pulls him back.

“Stay.” He says quietly, kissing Peter’s bite mark open-mouthed and laving it with wide tongue strokes. “Stay like this for a while.” Deuce smiles against his shoulder.

Peter hums, processing the words slowly feeling suddenly much less brittle. He’s not really interested in debates and resting here is fine with him, though he’ll probably want a bed soon, at the least. He eyes the couch blearily.

Not worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! THIS IS IMPORTANT! QUICK POLL!.....how do people feel about knotting? Anyone super against? Super for? What are the feelings? reply anon if you like.


	22. In Which Peter Gets into Trouble and Maybe Out of It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! :D Here is a chapter for you guys! I hope you enjoy it! Hurraaaay!!!

Peter shifts, letting out an uncomfortable grunt that Deucalion echoes behind him.

“Alright.” Peter says. “I’m calling it. It’s time to get up.”

Deucalion hums agreement behind him, gives his bite mark one more long, proprietary lick and slowly slips out of Peter’s ass. Peter manages to minimize his reaction to a small whispered, “Oh, fuck.”

Of course it’s not small enough that Deuce misses it and he laughs against the back of Peter’s neck. Deuce sits up and rolls Peter onto his back.

Peter looks up at him from the floor. Deuce is smiling an open smile, maybe a slightly smug one, maybe a little mischievous. Still, it’s a smile that invites Peter into the smug, mischievous joy rather than a smile at Peter’s expense.

That hurts a little. The affection always hurts.

“Shower?” Peter asks.

Deucalion groans, “Oh, I suppose.” He grabs Peter by the shoulder and pulls him up to sitting and into a kiss. It’s an average kiss, not chaste, but not deep and filthy either. It’s the kiss of a longstanding couple.

Ugh. And that thought totally ruins the afterglow.

Deucalion breaks the kiss and stands pulling Peter inexorably to his feet as well.

“Someday,” he says holding Peter’s hips and kissing down his jaw, “I want you to stay like this, smelling like us and sex. I want any wolves who dare come near you to know that you’re taken.”

Peter suppresses a shiver and says, “Unhygienic.”

Deucalion rolls his eyes and pulls Peter into the master bathroom.

“Perhaps it’s a little unhygienic.” Deucalion admits with a smirk as he turns the shower on.

“Peter sniffs, “It’s filthy.”

“At least it might deter you from seeing your old pack. Your alpha’s orders certainly don’t stop you.” Deucalion says so mildly that Peter almost fails to realize the implication.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“Did you think I didn’t notice the smell of another alpha?” Deucalion asks, advancing on Peter who takes a step back without even meaning to.

This is bad. This is very bad. The bathroom is starting to steam up but Peter feels cold, petrified.

Of course, it does make sense. The sex wasn’t just some spur of the moment lark. It was an instinctual reflex. Deucalion had smelled another alpha on him and had felt the need to claim Peter and scent mark him. That’s why he was reluctant to shower, even now.

It also meant that now, with his instincts satisfied, Deucalion would be back to more rational thought.

Clever, clever, Deucalion. He had waited until he had gotten Peter into the bathroom, no windows, no exits, no escape except through Deucalion. Now that Peter knows he is in trouble it’s too late.

“What do I do with you, Peter?” Deucalion asks rhetorically with a dramatic sigh. “You continue to disobey me.”

Peter makes himself small. “I’ve only been trying to do as you asked, to find the darach.”

“Into the shower, Peter.” Deucalion replies.

Peter shudders and moves towards the shower slowly, not taking his eyes off Deucalion, but not making eye contact.

This is the possession talking, this switching back and forth between loving fiancé and brutal alpha. The difference between anger and discipline and affection and tenderness is lost on Deucalion.

It’s not lost on Peter and it’s _very_ disconcerting.

Deucalion’s stare doesn’t let up and Peter steps into the shower. Deucalion follows slowly after him, crowding him into the corner under the spray of the hot water.

“I know that corporal punishment will only last so long with you.” Deucalion says, advancing further until Peter’s pressed against the cold tile. “You haven’t honored our agreement.” Deucalion brings a hand up to Peter’s throat and holds it lightly, just threatening, but the threat is enough to set Peter’s heart stuttering and his breathing fast and shallow. “Shall I kill one of your nephew’s betas? Is that what it will take?” Deucalion continues, so collected and unconcerned.

“Please.” Peter says, throat working against the light pressure of Deucalion’s palm. “Just hear me out. I wasn’t disobeying you. Your instructions were conflicting and I made a choice, just let me explain.”

“Explain, Peter.” Deucalion says with an unreadable stare. “I’m listening.” He says as he releases Peter’s neck and pulls him under the spray, turning him so that he’s flush, back to front with Deucalion.

“I went to look for the darach, as you said and,” Peter nearly chokes as Deucalion’s claws scrape gently down his sides. “but I incidentally found out that Deaton had been taken as a sacrifice.”

Deucalion lathers a bar of soap in his hands in front of Peter and begins to stroke his chest and sides, claws fully extended and so near to breaking skin that Peter tries not to breathe in case the movement of his chest makes Deucalion slip.

“I wanted to pursue the…” Peter shivers and his head falls back onto Deucalion’s shoulder as his claws skim over one of Peter’s nipples. “I thought I could find the darach by following…and Deaton is valuable and I didn’t want the…oh, god…the less sacrifices the less power the darach will have.”

Deucalion’s grip around his waist tightens suddenly. “And where does young Scott come into things?”

“He was at…” Peter hisses as a claw breaks skin, just ever so slightly, and the drop of blood is washed away almost instantly. “He was at the clinic. I had to see…inside…to find him.” Peter manages to babble out as Deucalion continues to fucking wash with him like some sort of threatening…shower buddy. It’s infuriating and _terrifying_.

Deucalion’s halfhearted hum behind him rumbles through Peter’s body. “And you couldn’t wait.” Deucalion asks, giving Peter no quarter or excuse. His hand travels up Peter’s torso to his neck.

“I’m…I thought…god, oh,” Peter gasps against Deucalion’s grip as the hand around his throat tightens. “Of course he was going to be there. I wouldn’t have found Deaton without him. I was just using them.” Peter struggles, wriggles just a little, breath coming in short fast bursts.

“Why do I not believe you?” Deucalion asks, voice reverberating through the shower.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Peter has nothing to respond with. Deucalion’s hand is tight and hot around his throat.

“Well,” Deucalion says, voice soft and dangerous in his ear, “It doesn’t matter.” He strokes Peter’s jaw with his thumb.

Peter lets his head hang, dropping his chin to his chest and giving the nape of his neck to Deucalion.

“You know I’ll have to punish you, anyway.” Deucalion says.

Peter nearly sobs at the sudden loss of tension. Punish _him_. Deucalion isn’t going to hurt the pack.

“You did break the rules.” Deucalion says nuzzling the back of Peter’s neck.

“Yes, of course.” Peter laughs weakly, almost hysterically. “I did break the rules.”

“Come now, Peter.” Deucalion says after a moment of Peter shivering in his hold. “Let’s get washed up.”

“Sure.” Peter says, “Of course.”

 

Deucalion doesn’t treat him coldly, as he did after the first time Peter disobeyed him. Instead he treats him like a misbehaving pet, keeping a tight leash on him, keeping him within sight, giving him small meaningless frustrating orders where he used to let Peter do whatever he wanted in the apartment.

They towel off in the master bath and then Deucalion shepherds him into the master bedroom. Peter wonders if having Deucalion at his back will ever make him feel safer, rather than in more danger.

Deucalion begins to dress and Peter briefly debates whether or not he should go get his own clothes, which are still in the guest bedroom, or wear Deucalion’s again. He settles on Deucalion’s after brief consideration. Deuce had been awfully susceptible to the scent marking instincts. It would be to Peter’s benefit to continue to smell like he belonged to Deucalion. Then there was his penchant for ripping up clothes. Peter prefers his shirts to remain intact.

Peter reaches for a shirt but flinches when Deucalion barks out a sudden “No.”

Peter raises his hands in surrender relinquishing his claim on the shirt.

“Don’t bother getting dressed, Peter.” Deucalion says and Peter stills.

That little sentence could mean so many different things and all of them are bad. It’s possible that whatever punishment he has in mind for Peter requires nudity (definitely bad) or he could just be up for another round and wants to keep Peter easily accessible (ok, not that bad, really). Maybe he hasn’t got any real plans and just likes seeing Peter naked.

Peter hopes it’s that one, but sort of doubts it.

“Come, Peter.” Deucalion says, having finished dressing while Peter stood in a confused stupor.

He follows Deucalion obediently and tries not to feel too self-conscious at the disparity of dress.

Deucalion’s destination turns out to be the living room. He sits on the couch, one ankle crossing over a knee, retrieving his headphones and iPod from the side table. Peter stands awkwardly by trying to come across as somewhat nonchalant and failing.

He had come so close today, so close to destroying his careful truce. He had no illusions about the fact that if one of his betas were attacked Derek would retaliate and everything would fall apart. He’s still on very thin ice here and he hasn’t been dismissed yet, so he stands and waits.

“Here, Peter.” Deucalion says in reply to his hesitance and pats the couch cushion next to him.

Peter hesitates for another moment, eyes flicking to Deucalion’s face to gauge his meaning, but Deucalion is looking at the iPod. Peter steps warily up to the couch and almost sits next to Deuce as the pat on the seat might imply, but he just…can’t.

He can’t take the chance that he misinterpreted the direction and it just feels weird to think of sitting next to Deucalion now.

In compromise he sinks to his knees watching Deucalion wide-eyed and lets a soft whine rise in the back of his throat: submission, confusion and obedience.

Deucalion reaches out threading his fingers through Peter’s damp hair almost absentmindedly.

“On the couch, Peter, it’s alright.” Deucalion says mildly petting Peter, a comforting and reassuring touch.

Only it’s not reassuring. None of this is. The couch is a privilege, a reward. Considering his disobedience and outstanding punishment being allowed on the couch is either going to result in something very bad or else it’s just part of a mind fuck to keep him in suspense for the real punishment.

Of course none of this really matters. If Deucalion wants him on the couch then he’s going to end up on the couch. His motives don’t really matter, especially given that Peter is turning out to be pretty bad at guessing them anyway. He never knows what Deucalion is going to do to him next.

With that thought comes a strangely serene calm. He’s never going to figure Deucalion out. He hasn’t got a prayer of guessing what or when his punishment will be. Somehow the complete lack of agency he has over this particular area is strangely calming.

Peter climbs onto the couch from his knees and with a few easy tugs to his hair from Deucalion and subtle shifts of body language, Peter suddenly understands.

He lies down and puts his head in Deucalion’s lap, resting his cheek on a strong thigh and curling up. He’s turned inward, his back to the room. There’s nothing to see out there anyway.

This way, with his nose brushing Deucalion’s hips and Deucalion’s hand resting heavy on his skull, he can at least breath in the deep clean scent of Deuce, of his alpha and relax into the impossibility of his situation.

Peter’s instincts were right. Deucalion seems content for now with having Peter naked, curled up at his side, in his lap. Peter is surprisingly ok with this. He could think about scheming, but he already has a plan. He could worry about his upcoming punishment, but there’s no use. So for now, he’s very, very willing to just let his mind turn off and concentrate on the warmth of Deucalion’s thigh under his cheek and the clean masculine scent in his nose and how very solid and real everything suddenly feels.

Deucalion’s fingers twine through his damp hair, carding through it, massaging Peter’s scalp, tugging gently at the locks.

It feels so nice that Peter almost misses the moment Deucalion turns on his iPod and resumes listening to his book.

It’s a murder mystery, a classic whodunit, which Peter finds quietly amusing and perhaps endearing. He smiles into Deucalion’s thigh and curls closer, sliding one arm gently behind Deucalion and around his waist, the other hand remaining tucked under his chin.

The novel is engaging, but with Deucalion stroking his hair and his pulse thudding rhythmically through the artery in his inner thigh Peter soon begins to nod off.

He wakes up in the same position, turns and blinks up at Deucalion who looks down at him quizzically.

There’s a book in his hand and he’s wearing reading glasses which strikes Peter as odd for reasons he can’t put his finger on.

He decides not to worry about it.

“Peter.” Deucalion smiles showing teeth.

Peter smiles back just as wide and toothy. He reaches up and plucks the book from Deucalion’s unresisting hand and throws it somewhere behind them.

Deucalion gives him a stern look, but Peter knows it’s all in fun. He flops over onto his back giving Deuce a playful look, tilting his chin up to flash a bit of throat, just enough to be a challenge not enough to be submission.

Deuce growls in good humor and pulls Peter up and into his lap, kissing him hard and thorough.

“Come on.” Deucalion says, urging Peter off the couch and his lap with firm hands on his hips. “I have something to show you.”

Peter follows Deuce out of the apartment through Riverside, through the forest to a clearing with a large, low tree stump, the biggest Peter has ever seen.

Deucalion sits on the stump and grins holding a beckoning hand out to Peter.

Peter cocks his head. Something about this is strange, unsettling even.

“Come on.” Deuce urges, patting his lap for Peter to sit.

Peter grins and swaggers over to Deuce who grabs his arm and tugs him down, spinning them so that Peter ends up on his back, calves hanging off the stump at the knees, with Deucalion kneeling over him.

Deuce just stares for awhile, stroking Peter’s cheek. The affection in his blue eyes painfully obvious.

“Are we still in Riverside?” Peter asks idly. Something is definitely odd.

Deucalion just shushes him and descends for a kiss.

Deucalion has always been a good kisser, Peter thinks as his hands follows Deucalion’s sides down to his hips. Deucalion cups Peter’s jaw with one hand, encouraging him to open for a hot, wet tongue to devour his mouth.

Deucalion’s other hand trails down Peter’s chest over his belly, teasing around the just of his hipbones and then, finally, to palm Peter’s hard cock through his pants.

“Oh, god.” Peter exclaims as his hands slam down on the stump, his claws sinking into the long-dead wood and it feels _wrong_. He feels so suddenly sure it takes his breath away.

He breaks the kiss and shoves up against Deucalion who gives to his pressure with a concerned, “Peter?”

“Something’s wrong.” Peter says, emphatically sincere. He stands and takes a few steps back. “I don’t know what, but something is not right.”

“Everything’s fine, Peter.” Deucalion says with an indulgent smile and a concerned cock of the head. “I brought us here specially for you.”

Peter shakes his head in frustration. He can’t pin it down or name it but something doesn’t fit. He turns with a disgusted frown, mainly at himself. He’s ruining the mood, he knows. Deuce went out of his way to bring him here. This place is special and he’s ruining thins with his paranoia and conspiracy theories and…

No. No, this place _is_ special.

Something snags at the back of his memory. _A tree trunk, old, ancient, countless rings marking the years. A stump with roots to the core of the earth. A place of deep magic._

“Where are we?” Peter asks whirling around to face Deucalion, “What is this place?”

Deucalion doesn’t answer. He just stares at Peter with an arrogant smirk and what’s that around his neck? A line of black so thin and dark that it looks like it might be drawn on. Then it pulls tight.

The cord digs deep into Deucalion’s neck and to Peter’s horror Deucalion raises no hand to defend himself, his expression just as smug now that he’s strangling as it was when he was smirking at his lover.

Peter shakes out of his shock with a horrified, outraged yell and clears the few steps in _no time_ but the stump is suddenly alive and its roots are writhing over the clearing, slithering around Deucalion’s body and smashing him head first onto the stump, pinning him down there, bleeding from a split skull and still smiling and Peter is standing right over him and it literally took _no time_ for Peter to move five feet. He’s fast, but he’s not that fast and he didn’t even move, really, he just found himself there, displaced.

It occurs to Peter very clearly, very calmly, as Deucalion’s lips turn blue, that this is a dream.

Of course. The nemeton (he remembers the proper name now) is in Beacon Hills not Riverside. Deucalion and he are much older and they aren’t…they aren’t friends anymore.

Even so, it doesn’t stop Peter from screaming when Deucalion’s throat is cut wide open by nothing and his mouth turns bloody black as he smirks at Peter.

“Peter!” Deucalion yells, alpha power coursing through his voice, “Open your eyes.”

Peter does and they’re in the apartment and it’s _real_ and Deucalion’s expression is somewhere between concern and terror but he isn’t bleeding or smirking or turning blue in the face.

Peter lets out a relieved sigh but it sounds more like a sob.

“Peter, Peter.” Deucalion is murmuring, one hand holding Peter firm and the other stroking wetly across his cheek and…are those tears?

Then Peter becomes calm enough to feel slightly embarrassed.

It had only been a nightmare, a dream.

Now he’s pinned under Deucalion on the couch, naked still and he’s been crying in his sleep like a child and Deucalion is comforting him.

He glances up quickly then looks away face heating up with a blush that is probably going to spread all the way to his chest. He pushes weakly against Deucalion’s chest, a signal that he wants to get up, that he’s calm, that he doesn’t need to be held anymore, but is unsurprised when Deucalion ignores him and just keeps petting him soothingly.

Deucalion simply shifts them a little on the couch to a more comfortable position than ‘I pinned you because you were thrashing around in the throes of a nightmare’ which is what Peter assumes to be what happened.

The new position, half-curled together half-reclining against the couch, is still no easier to extract himself from; Deucalion’s arms are still wrapped around him.

Peter settles into the embrace grudgingly. He’s certainly not getting out of it until Deuce decides he should.

“Alright?” Deucalion asks finally.

“I’m fine.” Peter says sharply.

“What did you dream of?” Deucalion asks quietly.

Peter twitches as the image of Deucalion’s throat torn open and his mouth smirking above.

“Riverside.” He says in the end since it’s difficult to lie in response to factual questions.

“Riverside would not have made you scream.” Deuce says softly behind him nuzzling him still playing the comforter.

“As I recall I screamed plenty in Riverside.” Peter says putting a leer into his voice. It’s not quite true, but it’s alright for an attempt at deflection.

“Not like that.” Deucalion says, voice hushed and sorrowful like he cares that Peter had a nightmare, like it even matters.

“It was just a stupid dream.” Peter mutters and he so doesn’t want to talk about how his subconscious is buying into his con or how he felt like his heart was going to explode when that cord drew tight around Deucalion’s throat or how Deucalion’s bitemark on his shoulder is tingling at the thought of Deuce bleeding out and if that isn’t terrifying enough to terrify someone into screaming then Peter doesn’t know what is.

“Tell me.” Deuce says, voice nearly a whisper in Peter’s ear but it sounds like power alpha and Peter shivers. He’s going to have to answer.

“The nemeton. You were…” Peter swallows thickly, “You suffered the threefold death...” He breathes a heavy sigh against his throat trying to close. “and I couldn’t get to you. You didn’t even _try_.” Peter says vehemently, suddenly irrationally angry at Deucalion even though of course he hadn’t been the one in Peter’s dream and obviously could not have affected it. He still for some reason gets an apology.

“I’m sorry.” Deucalion says pulling Peter closer to his chest. “I’m alright.”

Peter snorts, “I know that. It was just a dream, like I said.” He squirms uncomfortably very aware of his nakedness as he’s dragged up Deucalion’s chest.

Deucalion holds him like that for a while, just reclining and letting their scents mingle while Peter’s heart rate recovers from its nightmare induced sprint to a relaxed calm cadence. Then Deucalion speaks.

“It’s past time for dinner, don’t you think?” he asks. Peter shrugs and Deucalion nudges him up.

“Come on,” he continues as they stand, “you can help cook.”

Peter squints in suspicion for a moment. He’d expected half-expected to be sent to bed with no dinner. It seems a suitable punishment. If not that, then what?

“And my punishment?” he asks, confident that he can ask now without risking further punishment.

Deucalion turns back from his path to the kitchen with a smirk. He stalks back over, suddenly predatory and Peter swallows nervously but holds his ground. Deucalion brushes into his personal space clothes whispering a hairs breadth away from his skin. It’s been a long time since Peter Hale has gotten goose bumps.

“I could always spank you.” Deucalion says with that same damnably sexy smirk and that voice like sin.

Peter’s face heats up in record time and he knows he’s blushing all the way to his ears. Damn Deucalion for his sexy smirk and his sexy voice and his ability to simultaneously make Peter’s knees go weak and his face go bright red.

Deucalion’s only reaction to Peter’s blush and acute embarrassment is to laugh and pull Peter close into his side and begin to pull him along towards the kitchen with one arm around his waist.

“No punishment.” Deucalion says to Peter’s utter surprise. He almost trips at the statement, “but no clothes until tomorrow.”

Still, Peter thinks, as he’s ushered into the kitchen. As punishments go, lack of clothes for a few hours is lighter than light and up until now Deucalion has been a strict alpha and disciplinarian. He would have to be if he expects to train Peter into being an obedient beta (and he will probably still fail) but he’s just letting Peter off the hook on this one. Maybe the sex mellowed him out.

Peter shakes his head. Yet more frustratingly obvious proof that Peter does not really understand Deucalion. It’s making his job very hard.

But it does make things more fun.


	23. In Which Words are Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between updates!!! :O Check bottom notes for AN IMPORTANT POLL.

Peter leans on his elbows over the piano where he’s spread out Chris’ map of the murders, the list of suspects based on arrival time and his laptop with the map of those suspects.

Deucalion is out, probably for the rest of the day, which is just what Peter needs. With these tools and a little luck he’s certain he can wean the list down to a reasonable number of suspects to verify with a the hagstone. He might even know the identity of the darach by tonight.

It’s good timing. He’s caught up on sleep, missed meals and he’s well on his way to having Deucalion wrapped around his finger. The bite mark or his shoulder is almost healed. Deucalion’s is finished by now, a ragged pair of textured crescents just slightly darker than the rest of his skin.

Peter’s mark is still half scab, but from the way it’s itching and pulling he should be done by tomorrow, maybe the next day.

It’s still strange to think of having a scar that can’t heal. Even the scars from the fire, egregious as they were, are now gone and he’d always known that they would fade eventually. He catches himself thinking that when this is over he can just will it to heal and he has to stop and correct himself.

Peter brushes over the ridges of the scab with tentative fingers and sighs looking down at the maps and lists. This is going to take a while.

It takes five hours to finish the list to his satisfaction, combining all the elements of the problem to reorder the suspects from most likely to least likely by time of arrival first, then proximity to the sacrifices and the telluric currents.

It’s still an alarmingly long list, but now he has somewhere to start.

Peter leans away from the piano to survey his work from afar. After this he’ll go address to address with the hagstone, but first he has another hypothesis to confirm.

He calls Deucalion who answers his phone with answers his phone with a terse, “Yes?”

“Alpha,” Peter says allowing a shade of desire to color his tone.

“What is it, Peter?” Deucalion replies sharply and then a little urgently, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” Peter replies with a smirk, “I’ve got some leads on the darach that I’d like to pursue. I thought I would check if that’s alright…”

“Yes, of course, Peter. Just be back by ten.”

“Yes, alpha, and…” Peter hesitates a beat grinning at the ease with which he can maneuver Deucalion.

“What is it, Peter?” Deucalion replies softly, like he’s trying to reassure his poor hesitatne beta.

“I was…” Peter waits again and then sighs, “Since you won’t be back and I’m going out I was wondering if I might,” one more pause, “get myself lunch.”

There’s a silent pause on the phone, but Peter’s almost certain his manipulations have been successful.

“Yes, Peter, on this occasion you may make yourself lunch.” Deucalion says firmly, as if he’s made the decision himself without the influence of Peter.

“Thank you, alpha.” Peter lets sincere joy saturate the simple statement.

“Of course.” Deucalion replies, “Be careful when you go out, Peter. That’s an order.”

“Yes, alpha.” Peter says, still too excited by the prospect of lunch and what he could make to really pay the warning much attention.

Deucalion sighs, a long put upon sigh, “Alright,” he says wrapping up the conversation, “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Peter replies without thinking and the line goes dead before he has time to regret it.

And he does regret it.

Peter stares at the phone in his hand for a long minute. It’s not like he _could_ have replied with anything else, not when he’s engaged to be mated with his alpha. He didn’t mean it, either, not really. It’s just the appropriate response and when you’re not thinking about it that’s how you respond automatically. Anyone would have. That doesn’t mean he meant it. Of course he didn’t mean it.

 _Then why are you risking so much to save him when you could easily just_ kill _him?_ A traitorous voice that sounds a lot like Talia’s whispers through his mind.

The phone’s casing cracks under his grip and it’s the final straw. He whirls and throws the phone full force against the wall.

Peter closes his eyes and takes a long breath.

Deucalion is an old friend and a good man and he doesn’t deserve to be possessed and killed, he tells himself calmly.

And he is _not_ in _love_ with _Deucalion_.

Peter exhales and opens his eyes. His phone is completely demolished. He’ll have to get a new one. He sighs harshly. What a stupid loss of control, wasteful and reckless. He digs the SIM card out of the wreckage and pockets it, angrier with himself by the second. What if Deucalion calls back? What if he needs to call Deucalion? What if the pack is in trouble and Stiles needs his advice again?

Peter growls to himself as he passes the kitchen. He’s not even hungry anymore.

First step: phone. Second step: darach. Everything else can wait and personal feelings don’t even factor into the equation.

Peter waits impatiently for the elevator trying to keep his frustration from advancing into seething. The elevator is taking its sweet time. Being on the top floor can be disadvantageous sometimes.

By the time it arrives Peter is vibrating with restlessness and it’s only one floor before the elevator gives it’s cheery ring and Peter almost pulls the button panel out of the wall, but he manages to school his expression to a polite rictus before the doors slide open.

Allison Argent stares at him wide eyed and frozen. Peter reacts much the same way (Of course, the next floor is the Argent’s. He’d forgotten in his frustration).

Perfect. Just what he needs. He rolls his eyes and the moment his gaze leaves he hears rustling and a telltale click.

The girl has a small crossbow pointed at him that she’s pulled out of her large bag like it belongs to Mary Poppins.

They just sort of stare for a while then Peter cocks his head and raises a brow. “You bring that to school?”

Allison frowns fiercely, “It’s Saturday.”

Peter flinches in surprise. He needs to keep better track of things if he doesn’t even know the day of the week.

“Right. Are you coming in?” Peter asks taking a step over to make room.

Allison gives him a sneer. “I’ll take the next one.”

“Allison.” Chris’ voice rumbles through the hall and Peter oscillates between jabbing the open door button or the close door one. “Who is that?”

“Just little old me.” Peter admits trying not to sound as reluctant as he feels, “Just passing through, as it were.” He gestures to the elevator.

Chris frowns at his presence and Peter sees him glance quickly at Allison’s crossbow, still aimed at his chest. That’s good. At least Chris doesn’t look enthused by the prospect of shooting Peter in the elevator.

Chris steps forward and puts a hand on the crossbow gently pushing it down until Allison lets it hang at her side. Allison still looks like she’s picturing him with a few more puncture wounds than Peter typically likes to risk. He sighs quietly to himself. He never should have tried to kill her.

“Going out?” Chris asks Peter taking another step forward blocking the door with a booted foot.

“Going hunting.” Peter replies narrowing his eyes and smiling sharply. He likes having someone to spar with someone to push who’ll push back. Deucalion is too dangerous right now. The consequences are too real with him, but Chris Argent, Chris Argent is a game Peter is discovering to be very entertaining. He’s much safer than Deucalion for now, still dangerous, of course, otherwise the game wouldn’t be worth playing.

Chris stands his ground analyzing the situation then steps into the elevator and looks back at his daughter.

“Do you want to take the next one?” Chris asks her softly no judgment in his tone.

Allison snorts and steps into the elevator positioning herself across from Peter. “I’d rather not leave you alone with him.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to murder him in the elevator of my apartment building. The doors don’t even lock.”

It seems the daughter has inherited her glare from her father, also her sense of humor. With the two of them next to each other it’s almost like seeing double.

The ride is blessedly short with no other stops to the ground floor. Unfortunately it only serves to give the Argents more time to glare angrily at him.

“So you’re living here now?” Allison asks sharply. She’s grown a lot since he last saw her, even he can see that. She’s stronger, if a little brittle still. He’s impressed.

“Yes, I _am_ actually a hostage so…” Peter shrugs, “I guess Deuce wanted to keep a close eye on me.” He glances at Chris who is watching him carefully. Chris, of course, knows the real reason Deucalion wants Peter close, but he keeps the sordid details to himself. Peter is grateful for that at least. He gives an almost imperceptible nod which Argent easily catches the meaning of.

“Why don’t you let me give you a ride?” Chris asks, though it’s not a question.

“Say what you mean, Christopher.” Peter says, cocking his head with a smirk, “You want to keep a close eye on me, too. In case I find something interesting.”

“Fine. Yes.” Chris admits more easily than Peter thought he would. Then he gives Peter a sharp smile, “I want to make sure I know the moment the darach is identified.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to smile sharp. “And are you ready for such an eventuality.” He asks referring to the fake plan he’d told Chris and Stiles about earlier.

“Ready enough.” Chris says, giving little away.

The elevator finally opens to the bottom floor and Chris moves towards the open door, but Allison inches slightly closer to Peter, maneuvering so that she’s between Peter and the exit and Chris.

“If you hurt my dad I will end you.” She says simply, “And I’ll make sure you can’t come back.”

Fierce. Just like her father.

Peter smiles and inclines his head, an acknowledgement, but still one she deserves. He can’t doubt her ruthlessness, not after what happened to Derek’s runaway betas.

After the exchange she strides past him, kisses her dad on the cheek, tells him to be safe and is off on her own errands whatever those may be.

Peter steps out of the elevator and up to Chris.

“She has a lot of potential.” He says to Chris, “Don’t let her turn into a monster.”

To Peter’s surprise, instead of growling or shoving him or even acknowledging the subtle dig at _Kate_ and the _fire_ and the _code_ , Chris merely watches his daughter exit the apartment doors and says seriously, “I don’t intend to.”

Then he turns to Peter. “Let’s go hunting.”

“I need to stop by the Sprint store first.” Peter says, walking out to the apartment parking lot.

“What? Why?” Chris says with obvious confusion and slight disbelief.

“I need a new phone.” Peter replies with an eye roll.

Chris shakes his head and throws his hands into the air. “Fine.”

 

“This is the forty first house we’ve visited.” Chris says, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. “We have nothing yet and these were the most likely candidates.”

“Isn’t hunting about patience?” Peter snaps.

“Aren’t _you_ running out of time?” Chris replies, just as quick.

Peter whirls around to stare at Chris, “What do you mean by that?” he asks slowly.

“You’re not going to mate with Deucalion, which means you have to find the darach before the full moon.” Chris says not bothering to take his eyes from the road.

Peter glares.

“We’ll find the darach soon enough.” He says with a certainty he doesn’t feel. In fact he’s getting a little worried himself. There must be some other piece of information, some other variable to add to the equation.

Peter leans back in the seat and closes his eyes, sifting through everything that’s happened in the last week or so. The abandoned mall, coming to the apartment with Deucalion, the sacrifices at the bank, the sacrifices along the telluric currents, Deaton being taken, the hex bags. The hex bags.

“Stop.” Peter says, eyes flashing open. “Stop!”

Argent pulls over with a concerned glance at Peter. His hands loosen on the steering wheel, obviously preparing to defend himself.

“What’s the name of Allison’s English teacher?” Peter asks rifling through the pages of the list of suspects.

Chris frowns, “Something starting with B, Bleakley or Baker or…”

“Blake?” Peter interrupts, scanning the pages, “Jennifer Blake?”

“That’s it.” Chris says, “Ms. Blake.”

Peter narrows his eyes and smiles at Chris, “Take us to the school.”

Chris watches him for a moment, then pulls away from the curb and accelerates. He appears eager to finish this. Peter settles back into the seat. That’s something they have in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS!!! ANOTHER IMPORTANT POLL!!! Things are going to start happening quickly (plot wise) and I am wondering whether people would prefer me to finish writing the whole story (I have the whole thing plotted out already) and then post it weekly OR just the sort of willy nilly sometimes long pauses like I have been doing previously.
> 
> TL;DR: Would ya'll prefer one long pause then without fail regular weekly updates OR willy nilly like I have been doing. 
> 
> \--I'm estimating that the story will have roughly 40 chapters depending on how I split things up.  
> \--And, the loooong pause version will probably be slightly better quality in terms of foreshadowing, detaily stuff.


	24. In Which the Darach is Discovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey aaaall. So we're STILL IN HIATUS. But I figured I'd give you guys a chapter at this point since it's been a while, to remind you that I'm still here :P And also to reassure you that I'm still working on this baby.
> 
> I'm thinking I might do a posting schedule of once a month until I finish the whole thing, since that'll give me plenty of time for quality between chapters and also make me hurry up a bit :P
> 
> So yeah, enjoy all! :D Oh, also I'm tentatively predicting 45-50 chapters. Wowzers!! Anyway, let me know what you think ;)

“English teacher, hm?” Peter muses as they check the roster and room numbers in the front office. “I could see it. Very dramatic. Very literary.”

“Room 255.” Chris says without acknowledging Peter’s witticisms. Argent has no appreciation for flair.

Chris begins to stride off, but Peter grabs his arm, “Wait a moment, Argent.” He whispers harshly. “Don’t you think a little subtlety is in order here?”

“The school is practically empty.” Chris counters, “and I have a perfectly good reason to see this Ms. Blake. She teaches my daughter.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees, “but assuming she’s the darach she’s going to recognize a hagstone and if she knows that we’ve found her out she will _kill_ us. _Easily_.”

“Fine.” Chris says, “How would you like to do this?”

Peter shrugs. It’s not that complicated. They just have to see her without her seeing them. “Just cruise past _subtly_ , tell me which room she’s in and I’ll look through the appropriate window.”

Chris narrows his eyes, wary of letting Peter out of his sight, but Peter has the advantage of being the only person who can use the hagstone. They could both go outside to try to spy through the windows, but then she might slip through their fingers and even though Ms. Blake is nothing more than a suspect right now, she’s their best guess at this point. Peter thinks it’s fair to say that they’re both hoping it’s her, just to have finally found the darach. It’s so much more stressful fighting invisible enemies than real ones.

Eventually Chris gives in. Peter loves watching him do that. He can read the whole internal conversation as it scrolls across Chris’ face. The resistance, the realization, the anger at having to cooperate with a werewolf, with Peter especially, and then maybe a brief moment to decide if he can think of an alternative, then, finally, acceptance.

“Fine.” Chris says, “I’ll text you the direction the room is facing and how many rooms down the hall it is.”

“Excellent.” Peter says, triumphant and smug as he straightens his coat.

Chris leans in, all anger, furrowed brows and threats, “If you don’t text me back yes or no within two minutes of my text I will be very displeased.”

“Don’t worry, Chris.” Peter replies flippantly as he walks towards the exit, “I’m in a hurry too, remember?”

Chris only narrows his eyes, glares and begins to make his way down the school’s empty halls.

Peter waits in the tree line, several yards from the school facing a side of the building that has many windows.

The real problem, he thinks, as he waits for Argent’s text, is that he isn’t in a hurry, not just yet. He needs to find the darach only once he, or she, has reached the pinnacle of their powers. Only then can he be sure that she’ll be able to exorcise Deucalion. After that he’ll just need to orchestrate a conflict (easily done with both parties spoiling for a fight) and then ensure the outcome of the conflict.

He sighs as his new phone vibrates a notification. Argent’s text is all business, as usual.

“Second floor. Sixth room. North facing.”

Perfect: Peter’s on the right side of the building, no need to suspiciously relocate by circumnavigating the school.

He focuses his vision and counts the rooms, hopefully from the correct direction. He assumes Argent took the stairwell closest to the office.

Yes. There. There’s a figure moving. Peter focuses his vision further and a woman’s figure becomes clear, pale with dark brown hair. That must be her: Ms. Blake.

Peter raises the hagstone to his eye, letting the familiar tug of the enchanted stone push into his spark.

Peter recoils at the woman’s transformation through the revelation of the hagstone. She’s mutilated. Beyond mutilated. No human could have survived something like that without magical intervention and the dark magic had clearly begun to have its affect as well. He can see the shadow of it follow her, like a bright misty miasma in some moments but then fading into a deep smoke. That is a _lot_ of power she’s carrying around with her.

Peter lowers the hagstone and gazes at Jennifer Blake’s disguise, so that he won’t mistake her. She’s very pretty, small, delicate features, a pert nose, bright red lips and pale as the moon. Peter sighs. At least Derek has good taste in _some_ sense.

Just as Peter opens his phone to text Argent that it isn’t her, his phone begins to ring that obnoxious standard ringtone that has all the businessmen near you patting their pockets to make sure it’s not their phone, since he hasn’t had time to change it.

Derek is calling him. That’s…odd. He hesitates. It’s not really a good time, but he supposes he should answer. If Derek is calling him it’s probably important. At least Derek will think it’s important. He briefly considers how he could possibly warn Derek off Ms. Blake without either encouraging him by his disapproval or making it obvious that once again Derek has won the murder-lottery when choosing dates, then he answers.

“Peter.” Derek doesn’t even ask. He states, but he doesn’t sound particularly confident.

“Derek.” Peter says, keeping his voice light and even.

“What the hell is going on?” Derek growls through the phone. Rude.

“I don’t know.” Peter snaps, “What?”

“Cora’s sick.” Derek snaps right back, “We’re at the hospital. What did you _do_?”

“I didn’t do anyth…” Peter pauses. Derek catches the hesitation and begins to yell accusations into the phone, but Peter isn’t listening. He’s thinking. Not much can make a werewolf sick, but a darach certainly can. But why would she? How does she even know about Cora?

“How is she sick?” Peter interrupts Derek. “What are the symptoms?”

“She’s throwing up black blood and some sort of plant. Berries, I think.”

“ _White_ berries?” Peter clarifies.

“How did you know that?” Derek asks, voice low and dark with accusations.

“Mistletoe.” Peter says. “It’s the darach.” This Ms. Blake may be playing a larger game than simply destroy the alphas.

“Well, what’s the cure?” Derek asks urgently.

“It’s not a disease or a poison. It’s a spell.” Peter explains, still contemplating what benefit poisoning Cora could gain Ms. Blake.

“How do we heal her?” Derek yells into the phone.

“How do you know Ms. Jennifer Blake?” Peter asks. Derek is in too much of a hurry to lie or hedge his story. “Stiles mentioned you saved her life once.”

“Yes, but who cares? What does that have to do with—“

“Have you seen her since?” Peter asks, overriding Derek’s protests.

“Yes, but—“

“It’s her.” Peter says simply, listening to the ragged intake of breath and then silence. His poor nephew, but they don’t have _time_ for this if they’re going to save his niece. “Listen to me. Stay where you are. Stay with Cora. I’ll take care of this.”

“No!” Derek yells into the phone, moving from disbelief through sadness to anger much too quickly for any average 23 year old. “I’m going to come down there and rip her _head off_.”

“Derek. Derek!” he has to yell to get through the tirade. “Derek. I’m going to take care of this, I promise. I promise you.”

“Why should I tru—“ Derek begins to say, but Peter knows what he’s going to ask, but he doesn’t have an answer. Hopefully Derek will put a few dots together and rein in his temper enough to stay with Cora, to keep her safe.

Right now he has a darach to deal with.

His phone rings again, insistently.

And a hunter. Ugh. He should probably answer this too, but Argent can’t kill Ms. Blake until he has confirmation that she’s the darach. Until he talks to Peter he _has_ to assume that she’s just an innocent human.

Peter switches from ringtone to silent and pockets the phone. He doesn’t have time for this. His plan is suddenly going to be greatly accelerated. Chris Argent is about to be the least of his worries.

He makes it to the front desk without incident, but then Chris Argent skids in with a glare that bespeaks violence. Peter grimaces and tries to halfheartedly dodge the incoming hunter, but really there’s no way to get out of this confrontation.

Chris grabs him by the collar of his jacket lifts him and shoves him against the wall. Peter lets him, since it will put the hunter at ease to feel in charge. The real power, knowledge of the darach’s identity, is still in Peter’s hands.

Argent’s blue eyes are nearly silver with fury under the incandescent lights of the school and he presses Peter against the wall with a forearm across his chest. The other hand, presumably, is on the gun that is now pressing surreptitiously into his side, hidden by the fall of both their jackets.

Peter can’t resist.

“Why, Christopher!” he purrs quietly, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me.”

“Want to find out?” Chris asks, voice tight with anger as he cocks the gun. It’s only for effect, since Peter knows the hunter carries semi-automatics, which don’t need to be cocked. Still, point taken.

“Is she the darach or not?” Chris asks, because he has to. He already knows the answer. If she weren’t the darach Peter would have no trouble telling him. He would only lie or deflect if she is the darach. Still, honorable Chris won’t make a life-or-death decision based on inferences, especially not true or false inferences from Peter.

“No.” Peter lies, “It’s not her.”

“Fine.” Chris calls his bluff taking half a step back and holstering his gun, “Let’s go then. Plenty more people to check.”

“I think I’ll stay and chat with her a bit.” Peter says, unsurprised by the direction of the conversation, “She is dating my nephew, after all, and in lieu of parents to meet, since your family—“

Bright pain arcs across his face and his eyes form tears. Chris Argent just _pistol-whipped_ him. Son of a _bitch_. Peter’s claws inch their way out before he takes a breath and controls himself. He might get away with killing Argent here and now, but the rift that would form between Derek and Scott would be unfortunate. They’re much more powerful as allies. Also they might try to kill him again.

So instead Peter straightens his jacket and says imperiously, “You’ll damage your gun that way, you know.”

“She’s the darach.” Chris replies. “We both know it’s true just say it.”

“If you _know_ it’s true, why don’t you just kill her?” Peter asks facetiously, buying a little time and calling Chris’ own bluff.

“You’re the one I should kill.” Chris says, stepping back and aiming his gun at Peter’s heart. “If you’re working with the darach…”

Ah. Yes, the gun does complicate things slightly.

But his mistake has been appealing to the hunter. It’s time to appeal to the father.

“She has a hostage.” Peter says, as though he’s blurting out a secret, which he is, but it’s very intentional.

“What?” Chris asks, disbelief and dread cancelling each other out to form a sort of exhausted deadpan.

“My niece, Cora.” Peter says, unsure whether Chris even knows she’s alive, “She’s in the hospital. I think you know what that means for a werewolf.”

Chris still looks wary and livid, but he’s listening.

“She’s the only family Derek has left.” He leaves out the ‘because of your sister’, but only because it would be counterproductive.

“Except for you.” Chris corrects, suspiciously tentative.

Peter’s mouth twists into a false grin, “I don’t think he counts me anymore.”

Chris gives him a disgusted look. Peter ignores it.

“The point is I’m going to make a deal with dear Ms. Blake. We’ll help her trap and kill Deucalion, which we were going to do anyway, and she heals Cora.” Peter says, “Right?”

“Fine.” Chris agrees more quickly than Peter expects and he can only hope it’s not because Chris just wants to get into proximity and then starts shooting. “but I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think so.” Peter laughs skeptically. “You think she’ll treat with a hunter? I doubt it.”

“What makes you so sure?” Chris asks, shoving closer to Peter once again and Peter can smell his sweat and gun oil and books, a not altogether displeasing scent, “She’s after a werewolf right now. Your alpha. I’d say she’s more likely to kill you on principle than me.”

“Yes, but I have something to offer her.” Peter argues. “And you’re just a bystander with a _gun_.”

“You aren’t going without me.” Argent says through grit teeth.

“If I let you come, then you have to promise not to tell anyone else who she really is.” Argent opens his mouth to argue, but Peter cuts him off viciously, “It will mean _my life_ if Deucalion finds out I’ve been keeping this from him and no matter how badly you want me dead you still need me.”

Argent narrows his eyes. “Does anyone else know?”

“Derek, but only because he’s managed to date her.” Peter says rolling his eyes with a sigh, “I’m sure that will come up in our conversation.”

Argent steps back, giving them both room to contemplate their options.

“Not even your daughter. Do you swear?” Peter asks again.

“I swear.” Chris says, looking as serious as ever. Peter narrows his eyes.

“Swear it on your code.”

Chris gives him an appraising look, but then he nods, “I swear it on the hunter’s code.”

Well, it’s not a blood oath, but Peter will take it. It’s Chris Argent, after all, one of the most infuriatingly honorable men in Beacon Hills, barring maybe the Sheriff.

“Well, then. Let’s go before she leaves to grade papers or sacrifice more teenagers.” Peter says with false cheer. This conversation is going to be an absolute minefield.

But there’s that saying, faint heart never won fair freedom.

Or however it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE CHAPTER SO FAR! :D and also why of course :P


	25. In Which Peter Switches Allegiance II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in hiatus my lovelies. Expect another update June 19th. Things are getting heated! :D

She’s just wiping off the chalkboard, looking more like a throwback to charming schoolmarms than the mutilated dark druid that Peter had seen from afar.

Peter enters the classroom first with a wide smile. He does enjoy the challenge.

“Hello,” he says, well aware that the appearance of two adult men in a high school classroom isn’t as innocuous as one might think even if you aren’t planning on discussing kidnapping and murder. “Ms. Jennifer Blake, I presume?”

“Yes, can I help you?” she asks innocently, and god Peter has a lot of respect for someone who can act that well. What a perfect disguise. He can’t hold back a compliment and she must already know that he’s a werewolf. It would be obvious to a darach.

“Oh, you’re very good.” Peter says with an open grin, “I’d love to chat with someone of your abundant talents, but I’m afraid I have a bone to pick with you first.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Ms. Blake continues not dropping her act for a second.

“No need to get defensive. I’m not here for a fight.” Peter says raising his hands in surrender to show how harmless he is. “He might be.” He says jerking a head back towards Argent, “But we’re not really together.”

“I’m sorry, what is this about?” Ms. Blake says, inching backwards, like Peter’s any sort of threat to a darach of her power.

“Please. Let’s not pretend you couldn’t take me apart.” Peter says reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the hagstone and lets it dangle from the chain he’d put it on.

At the sight of the hagstone she changes, not physically, but her whole demeanor. Her innocent wide-eyed façade falls away to reveal a cruel sneer and Peter knows it’s time to get down to business before she decides to simply clean up witnesses.

“I know exactly what you are and what you want.” Peter says, setting the bait, Argent is silent and tense behind him and he’s a little glad that he’s not alone. Maybe if the darach decides to kill them he can shove Argent in her path and escape.

Probably not, but it might be worth a try.

“Oh?” Blake says, advancing and suddenly looking very threatening. Peter stands his ground and thankfully Argent does too. He must be used to having dangerous supernatural entities of ten times your strength advancing on you. Peter isn’t and finds it very uncomfortable. “And what is it exactly that I want?”

“Deucalion.” Peter says simply with a dark smirk. For this role he’ll need to play the Iago character. Jealous of his alpha, conspiring with his enemies to bring him low and grab power himself. It’s not _far_ from the truth, but he’ll really have to oversell it here. “I can give him to you.”

“His own beta would betray him.” She doesn’t sound surprised, more vindicated.

“Well, I didn’t join his pack of my free will.” Peter says, “So yes, I would betray him.”

“And who is this?” She says, looking Argent up and down, “Your bodyguard?”

Peter laughs at the thought of that, “More like a piece of gum on the bottom of my shoe that I can’t manage to scrape off.”

“My only interest is mitigating collateral damage.” Chris growls, “You druids and werewolves and darachs can slaughter each other freely, but leave the rest of us out of it.”

“A hunter.” The darach says distasteful and sort of disappointed but she’s back to addressing Peter.

Peter shrugs, “The younger werewolves are fond of his daughter and he keeps following me.” Peter waves a hand in the air, “He’s certainly no threat to _you_.”

Blake smirks and gives a little shrug. She _is_ full of herself. Peter could almost like her if not for...

“There is, however, the matter of my niece and nephew.” Peter says, voice hardening.

“And who might they be?” Blake asks, leaning a hip against the desk at the front of the room. She’s feeling confident enough to relax, feeling in control. Good.

“Ah, of course,” Peter says with false cheer, “We haven’t been properly introduced. This is Christopher Argent.” He points a thumb at the hunter, “And I am Peter Hale.”

Blake tilts her head in recognition and nods, obviously putting together the history and relationships.

“I can give you Deucalion.” Peter says letting a tempting lilt edge into his voice, careful not to mention the demon. Then he makes his demand, “Provided that you heal my niece and stay away from my nephew.”

She’ll take offence at being given orders. He’ll remind her that he can give her everything she wants, so there’s no point in balking.

Blake gives him a smirk and a glare, “But your nephew is so _cute_.”

Peter gives her a toothy smile, “And Deucalion is just so powerful.” He pretends to gush. “I’m afraid if you want Deucalion dropped into your lap you’ll have to forgo my nephew, however _cute_ he might be.” Peter says distastefully.

“And how are you, a beta wolf, going to deliver Deucalion to me?” the darach asks.

Peter gives her a cruel little laugh of shared spite and pulls the collar of his shirt to the side revealing the scar on his shoulder, “I have him wrapped around my finger.”

The darach stares for a second and then gives a disbelieving laugh, which quickly devolves into a complete maniacal cackling. Argent shifts uncomfortably at his shoulder. Peter supposes Argent is more used to shooting the questionably sane monsters he encounters. Peter is the one who has to engage them in conversation, trick them, play their games.

“He fell for _you_?” She manages to wheeze in between her spasms. “ _Now_?”

Peter rolls his eyes, “A long time ago. Incidentally I have you to thank for bringing him back into my…sphere of influence.” He says with a cutting smile.

She snorts, “You’re welcome.”

Peter gives a trite quirk of the head, “So, Deucalion for my niece and nephew.” He smiles wide, “What do you say?”

“I’m supposed to believe you want your mate dead?” she says standing from the desk taking a more aggressive stance, “I don’t think so.”

“We aren’t mates yet.” Peter replies, “This is just an engagement bite, apparently, and it wasn’t my idea.” Now it’s Peter’s turn to act casual, to turn one the chairs around and seat himself, propping his feet up on another desk.

“I’m Deucalion’s beta in a pack of alphas, not my idea either, I might add. He decided he wanted me as mate.” Peter tilts his head, “I didn’t think it wise to refuse, but I’d certainly appreciate having my freedom back.” Peter gives her and ugly smirk, “I’ll only get that if he’s dead.”

The darach gives him an incredulous smile, “That’s awfully ruthless of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Peter preens under her scrutiny. It’s not something he’s ashamed of. He smiles to himself. If anything, he’s proud of it.

“How do I know you can deliver?” Jennifer asks, obviously a wise woman.

“Well, that you have to take my word on, but you can have this.” Peter says dangling the hagstone from the crook of one finger. “Deucalion gave it to me. If you show it to him he’ll know that we’ve had dealings and he’ll kill me, not that you couldn’t just do that yourself. How many more sacrifices do you have to make, anyway?” He asks. She’s very powerful already and he wants to know what their time frame is.

“None.” Chris growls, startling Peter. With all his concentration focused on Blake he’d effectively forgotten Argent’s presence. Peter tenses and takes his feet off the desk, planting them firmly on the ground.

The darach considers Chris like a cat might consider a moth, a curiosity either to be ignored, or if it proves interesting, to be chased and devoured. Peter watches her and tries to decide if it’s worth trying to defend him if she goes for him. Not that it would do any good, but he might be able to stall her long enough to convince…

She doesn’t reply to Argent merely shifts her intense gaze to Peter who straightens.

“Five days from now, I want him.” She says. Peter lets a breath of relief out, then refocuses. “Bring him to the Nemeton. I’ll have the place surrounded by mountain ash and when you enter I’ll close the circle.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Am I to understand that I’ll be within the circle as well?” It will leave him very vulnerable, as a werewolf, to be inside a darach’s circle of mountain ash. The only way out will be to kill her. Luckily he has a plan on how to manage that, but she doesn’t know that, of course, so it makes sense to seem nervous.

“Of course.” She shrugs, “It will protect you from the other alphas until they realize they’re better off making themselves scarce.”

Peter hesitates for show, then gives her a slow nod, “And where is the Nemeton?”

She shows genuine surprise. “You don’t know?”

“I did once.” Peter says tapping the side of his head “My sister saw fit to take the memory from me.”

The darach shrugs and approaches, hand outstretched. Peter takes half a step back before he can stop himself and Argent tenses behind him, prepared to fight. The man is understandably on a hair trigger, so Peter reaches out a hand to signal that the flinch was his mistake and not to continue reacting.

Blake approaches and Peter forces himself to stay still. At this point the darach has more to gain from keeping him alive than killing him. Significantly more. Still, that doesn’t make him any less nervous.

“I’ll show you the path.” She says, one hand hovering next to his temple, but she waits for his nod of assent before pressing the hand to his skin, his eyes snap shut and suddenly Peter is in the forest, moving quickly past trees and rocks, noting landmarks he’s never seen before and remembering smells and sounds that aren’t familiar to him. Then the nemeton comes into view, huge and heavy with the weight of magic hanging in the air around it and earth that it buries its roots in.

Peter’s eyes flick open to a blurry view of Chris Argent’s face against the backdrop of the ceiling. He’s…he’s lying on the floor with Chris kneeling over him.

“You passed out.” Chris says simply as Peter waits for his confusion to pass. He levers himself up onto an elbow casting his gaze around. The darach is gone. She’s gone.

Peter scrambles to his feet, making it only to his knees before he begins to sway as the room tilts. Evidently whatever technique darachs use to share memories isn’t as delicate as the ones alphas use.

Damn it! Damn it all to hell! This was his one chance to get her to agree, to save Cora, to keep her from manipulating Derek.

“Damn it!” he curses rising to his feet, turning to Chris who has a hand clenched around his gun. “What the hell happened?”

“She put her hand to your head. You passed out. She left.” Chris says tersely. “She told me to remind you of the terms of your agreement.”

Peter pauses for a moment, processing, then let’s out a sigh of relief. She’s agreed after all. Peter would have asked her to swear an oath, maybe a blood oath. Speaking of which, Peter takes a deep breath; he can smell blood.

“You’re bleeding.” Peter states. There’s no way in hell Chris Argent has managed to blood the darach. “What did you do?”

“It was nothing.” The hunter hedges, even though there’s no reason for him to be bleeding unless he attacked the darach or the darach attacked him or he just fell down and accidentally cut himself and one of those options is way more likely than the others. Peter narrows his eyes. He’s not really interested in Argent’s crusade as long as it doesn’t affect his own plans.

Peter looks Argent over and focuses on the smell. It’s coming from near his face but Peter doesn’t see any blood. He glances around the room and ah ha! There on the wall is a small splatter of blood at around head height.

Peter sighs, “Come here.” He says raising a beckoning hand towards Argent’s shoulder. Argent moves back and tenses, hand going to his gun. He must be feeling especially twitchy after having been thoroughly dominated by the darach.

Peter sighs in theatrical exasperation, “I just want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.” That’s not really why, but it’s a good enough excuse. Peter doesn’t really know himself. There’s something appealing about getting his hands on Argent. They’ve never fought, not really, but here now, with the scent of his blood in Peter’s nose, well there’s something to be said for knowing your enemies and more for knowing your allies.

Argent eyes him suspiciously, “Why?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Did you not hear your daughter? If you drop dead in my vicinity they’ll kill me. Again. It wasn’t that much fun that I’d want a repeat.” Argent doesn’t relent but he seems a little less tense so Peter pushes, “Just let me see your head.” He says reaching up with obvious intent.

Argent bats his hands away but relents, “Fine. Fine! Just stop!”

They both pause for a moment, Peter with his hands still partially raised and Argent looking angry but determined. Peter gives a pointed shrug, staring at Chris as if to ask if he’s finally going to stop fighting and actually put his money where his mouth is. Chris gives a stern nod and remains resolutely still as Peter reaches for his face, gently cupping one cheek, he tilts Chris’ head so that his eyes catch the light and he can watch the pupils dilate, evenly as it happens, so no concussion.

Chris stares at him, gaze unflinching and stubborn. It’s a little funny, since they end up staring intently into each others eyes, but Peter breaks their shared gaze to take a step to the side and gently guide Argent’s head to get a view of the back where a patch of shiny blood stands out reflecting brightly under the harsh lights of the school.

The split itself looks like a small affair. It could probably do with a few stitches but it would likely be fine without them. His skull is completely intact, not even cracked.

“I’ll bet you have one hell of a headache.” Peter says as he begins to draw out the pain, slow and easy. Argent relaxes in his grip and for a panicked second Peter thinks the man might collapse, but Argent never does what Peter expects.

Instead, Peter finds himself pushed face first against the wall with one forearm shoved halfway up his back.

“What was that?” Chris growls behind, shoving his arm further. It’s really unfair that he has to let Chris do this to keep the peace. Still, the hunter always seems more off balance the less aggressive Peter acts, like he wants to confirm that Peter is a thoughtless, vicious animal, but every time Peter restrains himself he has to question that belief.

“What did you do?” Chris insists, twisting his wrist up painfully.

“Well,” Peter answers turning his head against the wall with some difficulty. This position is not comfortable, but at least going by Argent’s heartbeat he isn’t too calm either. “The good news is you don’t have a concussion, the bad news is you’re paranoid and violent.”

“ _And_ my headache is gone. Why?” Argent says squeezing his wrist viciously.

“Don’t you know anything about werewolves beyond the maiming and killing?” Peter gasps against the pain of his strained shoulder and wrist joints, “How do you know about mating and not pain transfer?” Peter is honestly incredulous of his ignorance. Just _how_?

Peter is released abruptly and he turns around to glare half-heartedly in disappointment, rotating his shoulder to ease the pain.

“Was that entirely necessary?” he asks plaintively adding a mumbled, “Ungrateful.”

Argent is looking at him strangely.

“I know about pain transfer.” He says slowly. Peter raises an eyebrow in question and Chris answers grudgingly, “I just didn’t think you would do that for-” there’s a slight pause, so slight Peter almost misses it, “a hunter.”

“Like I said: paranoid.” Peter says flippantly, fixing his jacket fastidiously and exiting into the hallway with Argent close behind. “Call it reflex, on my part, or maybe I was just taking care of an ally.”

Chris watches him suspiciously, but not his usual suspicion. It’s something softer, something more like intrigue or interest or puzzlement.

“Don’t read into it, Argent.” Peter warns, not sure why he feels the need to.

Argent snorts.

“I’ll give you a lift home.” Argent says, his tone brooking no arguments. Peter gives half a nod and half a shrug. Let Argent feel like he has control.

“I want to make a call first.” Peter says as they leave the building, flipping his phone out. Chris wanders off a few feet to give him the illusion of privacy. Cute.

There are several missed calls (all from Derek, thankfully), since he’d put his phone on silent. It takes only seconds to redial Derek at the hospital.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Derek answers the phone.

“Busy.” Peter replies shortly, “What’s happening? How’s Cora?”

“Cora’s fine.” Derek says. “She just...stopped being sick and felt better. She’s still a little weak, but—“

Peter lets out a ragged sigh of relief that almost morphs into a word (maybe ‘god’ maybe ‘fuck’ maybe heading towards no word at all), but doesn’t quite make it.

“Listen, go have coffee. Coffee, not tea, and eat something with a lot of garlic, both of you. If they have saltshakers steal one, one each.” Peter says. It probably won’t help too much, but it’s something. They probably need food anyway, might as well take advantage of the protective qualities of garlic. Plus, it’s just tasty.

“What?” Derek asks, “What did you _do_?”

“Don’t worry about it, Derek. Everything is going according to plan.” Peter says smoothly. If he weren’t playing such a dangerous game he would tell Derek everything. The boy is nosy. It’s much more dangerous to have him curious. “Ms. Blake shan’t be bothering you anymore. If she does let me know immediately.”

“No, just tell us—“

“I have to go, Derek. Tell Cora I—“ Peter pauses painfully, “I’m glad she’s well.”

“Pete—“

Peter hangs up. He turns to Chris who’s trying to look politely uninterested.

“Shall we?” Peter says, voice sharp with warning not to comment.

The ride back to the apartment is quiet, maybe even a little awkward. They both have minds full of battle plans, some probably conflicting, but they won’t share, not yet.

Chris doesn’t even broach the subject of the remaining sacrifices. Either the darach has changed her mind, which Peter thinks is unlikely, although perhaps they came to some arrangement, or Chris has wisely given up hope of winning an impossible battle in lieu of winning the war.

Maybe Peter will try to suss it out of him next time they meet with Stiles. He’s not likely to give it up with their meeting fresh in his mind. Argent will, of course, have noticed that Peter didn’t try to discourage the darach from finishing her cycle of sacrifices.

Peter can only hope that whatever Chris ends up planning it won’t interfere with what he already has in mind or…

“Don’t involve the pack.” Peter says as soon as it occurs to him that Chris might do just that.

“What?” Chris snaps at Peter’s non sequitur.

“Whatever it is you’re planning to stop the darach from making more sacrifices. Don’t involve the pack.” Peter says.

Argent gives him a hard glare but doesn’t answer. Peter clenches his fists.

“I put them as far out of harm’s way as possible doing this. If you put them back on the frontline—“

“No.” Chris says. “I don’t intend to involve them. We’ve come to an…arrangement.”

Peter stares incredulously as Chris watches the road.

“You’re joking. You came to an arrangement on _human sacrifice_ with the _darach_? She does still intend to make the sacrifices, doesn’t she?”

“You won’t like it.” Chris says grimly.

Peter scoffs. As if Argent knows what will bother him when it comes to human sacrifice. He was perfectly fine with the original deal: let the darach kill whoever she wants as long as it’s no one he cares about. “Try me.”

“Coma victims.” Chris says after a long hesitation. “Brain dead.”

Peter stills, mind suddenly quiet and small.

“Hale?”

What if he had been…when he was in the hospital…it was always so quiet and so loud at the same time.

“Hale!”

There was always noise, but soft background susurrations and there was never any color. And he had been sleeping for so long. He had been so quiet. What if someone had come to paint his room red with his blood? Would he even have noticed?

“Peter!”

Peter snaps out of his memories, if you could call the fuzzy half-impressions of jumbled senses real memories.

Chris is watching him carefully. He doesn’t bother to ask if Peter is all right or if Peter minds.

“Unexpected.” is all Peter says to explain.

Then they’re pulling into the lot for the apartment and Chris parks, turns off the car, but doesn’t immediately get out.

There is something unspoken between them, but Peter doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t have the luxury right now. All his focus has to be on the game he’s playing with all of them, with Deucalion, with the darach and yes, with Chris, but strangely, the hunter has become at least third on his threat list and he’s slowly fading from that list altogether phasing from personal enemy to dangerous acquaintance.

Chris opens his mouth and Peter exits the car and starts towards the apartment without him. He doesn’t really want to share an elevator at the moment either.

Right now he has to figure out how to hide the fact that he knows the darach’s identity and has lost the hagstone.


	26. In Which Worse Comes to Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTENSE CHAPTER guys. WARNING This one includes mindfucks and abuse, so be cautious!!

The elevator ride feels long, although it is no longer than it’s ever been and shorter than some. He’s jittery with excess adrenaline from the darach.

Hopefully Deucalion won’t ask about it directly. Of course he would assume that Peter would tell him without prompting. It’s unlikely he’ll have to show him the hagstone either. This could very well work with a little luck.

And that’s the first glimmer of hope Peter’s felt in weeks.

Then again, when has Peter’s luck ever held out when he most needed it? He’s been burned alive _twice_. If that’s not bad luck, what is?

Peter frowns as he steps out of the elevator. The alphas are here, all of them. He’s really not prepared to deal with the whole cavalcade after this afternoon’s stress. It’s not like he has much choice though.

He sighs, unlocks the door and slips into the apartment. Perhaps he’ll be able to slink into the guest bedroom and pretend not be here until they leave.

“Peter.” Deucalion says from the living room. Peter sighs. No such luck, of course.

Peter trudges into the living room towards Deucalion, prepared to kneel silently at his feet for the foreseeable future while the other alphas continue to be present.

Instead as he enters the middle of the room the alphas seem to converge on him, snarling, fangs exposed and eyes glowing softly. They’re spread out, as if they were ready to circle him the moment he entered the room. Peter takes a defensive stance, not much help given that he’s surrounded, glancing around trying ineffectually to keep them all in his sightline.

“Peter.” Deucalion says, the only one standing apart from the circle. He’s completely human except for his eyes, which glow a burning red even from behind his tinted glasses.

“Deuce.” Peter says, which a slightly questioning lilt. “What is this about?” He asks straightening and attempting to appear calm and composed. It takes effort. If the other alphas are involved this must involve the darach situation.

It couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“I heard you, beta.” One of the twins spits.

Peter doesn’t bother trying to figure out which one. He just puts on his poker face with as much focus as he can and stares. He will give nothing away. Eventually the twin breaks the silence again.

“I heard you talking to the darach.” The boy accuses, as clumsy in his accusations as Derek is with negotiating. Of course the boy may be the witness but Deucalion, still and silent as marble, is the judge.

Once again Peter is silent.

It’s possible that the boy only overheard parts of the conversation or the conversation afterwards or before. He can’t defend himself until he knows exactly what he’s being accused of.

“I heard you the moment you entered the school. You and that hunter.” The boy sneers, “He wants to fuck you, you know.”

Peter barks a laugh unintentionally. “Argent wouldn’t dirty his hands.” He looks away from the alphas, appearing bored and unconcerned. That’ll get the little shit going.

“Aren’t you going to deny it?” the other twin, Ethan, he thinks, growls at him from the other side.

“Why would I try to deny it? Are you calling your brother a _liar_?” Peter says with dramatic surprise.

Ethan roars and charges him, tackling Peter to the ground heavily. Peter doesn’t bother trying to mitigate the damage of the fall, instead concentrating on keeping the alpha’s claws away from him. His twin quickly intervenes, though not before Peter earns a few new slashes across his arms.

They’re superficial. Meaningless.

Peter rises to his knees, then slowly to his feet. He’s not the token beta now. He’s a potential enemy, a threat. He needs to respond to these accusations like one.

“Did it possibly occur to you that I was lying to her?” Peter asks superiorly. The twins and Ennis still rumble with angry growls, but Kali is watching him intently. Deucalion is as unreadable as he was before.

“You sounded pretty fucking convincing to me.” The twin snarls in reply, embarrassed to be criticized by a mere beta.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think I could be convincing.” Peter snaps disdainfully.

“What about your niece?” Ethan continues, “You only did it to save her.”

“I killed two birds with one stone. Nothing wrong with looking out for family.” Peter replies smoothly, shrugging, “It gave me an excuse to bargain with her.”

“We don’t need to bargain with her. We need to kill her.” Kali cuts in clearly.

“We need to kill her, but to do that we need to trap her. She’s too powerful and too clever to simply hunt. If you attack her directly,” Peter addresses Deucalion, looking him in the eyes, for the first time since this trial began, “she’ll run and you’ll never catch her again.”

Deucalion tilts his head in consideration, but no emotion moves across his face. Peter feels a chill run through his body and he thinks he can almost see the demon pulling Deucalion’s strings behind the curtain.

Deuce gives a small nod, a jerk of the chin, towards Ennis who starts for Peter.

“Deuce, wait,” Peter says. This is a bad sign. Very bad, he thinks, as Ennis catches him from behind, fists closing over his biceps, over the slashes the twins had inflicted. He’s shoved to his knees.

“Tell me the truth, Peter.” Deucalion says, voice a terrifying flat calm. “Plainly.”

He’s going to listen for Peter’s heart rate. Peter almost laughs. His heart is already racing with fear. This could easily be the end.

It’s stupid, really. Even if he didn’t have an alternate plan, this is the best way to get to the darach. If only they had waited to accuse him he would have told Deuce about the deal. Then they would have known. Peter swallows and tries to calm down.

“Deuce, I swear.” Peter says slowly, “I swear to you on the ashes of my family that I was lying to her. I would never help her…” trap you, trick you, tie you down, put you in danger. He considers each in a flash, but they’re all lies.

Deucalion’s red gaze is unwavering.

“I would never let her kill you.” Peter says.

“I want to believe you, Peter, but you’ve disobeyed me before. I know your nephew was involved with the darach. Could it be he’s made a deal with her, too?”

“No. I made the deal.” Peter says, shifting blame from Derek quickly. “But I haven’t betrayed you.” Peter says firmly. He has to stay calm. The truth is on his side, sort of. He just has to convince Deucalion.

“You’re a liar, Peter.” Deucalion says, “You always have been.”

“I haven’t betrayed you.” Peter says again looking Deucalion in the eyes and allowing his steady heartbeat to speak for itself. “Yes, I made a deal with her _so that we can trick her_. She’s powerful and wary. You won’t be able to confront her head on. She’ll make sure of that. This is the only way.”

He’s repeating himself, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He _has_ to make them believe, make them _understand_.

Deucalion closes his eyes, contemplating in icy silence. Peter shivers, wide-eyed.

“We hunt tonight.” He says with finality and the alpha pack growl and grin and circle him restlessly like sharks about to frenzy.

Peter can only hope that the darach escapes and lives to exorcise the demon from Deucalion. Otherwise they’re all going to be in for a lot of trouble. At least Deucalion doesn’t seem to be blaming the pack.

“And you’ve disobeyed me for the last time, Peter.”

Peter snaps into focus as Deucalion advances.

“I haven’t disobeyed you.” Peter says desperately as he edges backwards on his knees and starts to rise, but firm clawed hands on his shoulders keep him down; Ennis, getting his revenge at last.

Deucalion’s claws shine as he approaches, “Terrible things have happened to you, Peter.” He comments on his leisurely approach. Peter is aware that it’s to draw out the tension to keep him in suspense, even as he is aware that he is starting to panic. His chest is rising and falling faster as his breathing quickens and his heart stutters trying to keep pace.

“Nothing I could do to you would come close.” Deucalion says and Peter starts to maybe get the gist of where this is going and he struggles under Ennis’ grip. Maybe if he can somehow get loose…but Kali and the twins are blocking the doors to the hall but no one’s blocking the door to the master bedroom and for the first time Peter actually considers the 24th floor balcony as a possible escape route.

“Please, Deuce, I was trying to help.” Peter says, “I’m sorry!”

“What’s your worst memory, Peter?” Deucalion asks as he walks around Peter.

“Don’t do this.” Peter says, voice mild with disbelieving shock. He receives no reply.

“Deucalion,” Peter says, struggling in Ennis’ grip, “Don’t do this.” He sinks his claws into Ennis hands and gets his shoulders ripped open as a result.

“Hold him.” Deucalion says.

“No!” Pete says surging forwards. He can’t do this. He can’t go through that again. He’ll make them kill him before he suffers those memories.

Once he determines that, there are no more thoughts beyond get out get out _get out_ and he lets his instincts take over.

Ennis pulls him back against his thighs by the shoulders. Peter reaches back and up slashing through the meat of his inner thigh, aiming for the femoral artery. He shoves both hands up into Ennis’ elbow joints, which had been locked to keep Peter on his knees. With that force gone Peter shoves up and backwards, rising to his feet and pushing the unbalanced alpha onto his back.

Ennis falls and Peter races towards the master bedroom. He’ll never get through the alphas to the hallway. He has to go a different way. Maybe he’ll think of something. Maybe he won’t. The balcony is the only avenue left to him. He might survive. He’ll try.

He’s so close, so very close, but he’s just not fast enough. He doesn’t know who brings him down initially, but he’s tackled to the ground. He slashes wildly. He’s so close. He just needs to buy himself a few more seconds, but then another set of hands grab him and a set of claws draw bright-pain across his back. He kicks viciously and hears a satisfying crunch when his foot connects with maybe a nose, but his leg is grabbed and slammed awkwardly into the floorboards cracking the hardwood and the bones of his ankle.

And just like that it’s over. They have him completely immobile. Pinned to the floor by four alphas. He never had a chance.

So when he feels a knee press into the small of his back and Deucalion’s claws graze the nape of his neck the only thing he can do is scream.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update July 19th. :D See ya'll then!


	27. In Which Stiles Stillinski Briefly Stands in as Narrator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN HONOR OF REACHING 200 KUDOS I AM DOING A BONUS UPDATE!!!! :D There will still be a normal update on the 19th of this month!
> 
> HURRAYYYY! I hope you enjoy this impromptu update!

It’s been really weird lately, going to school, doing homework (sometimes), having gaming nights with Scott and Isaac and sometimes with Boyd. It still feels like they’re on the frontlines, like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there’s not much they can do about things.

Of course they’ve still been trying, but it’s hard to get information what with the alpha pack being so dangerous and the darach being unknown and not much else is going on except for the occasional sacrifice. They’ve found themselves at the scene of several of the sacrifices, but they haven’t been able to get any new information about who the darach might be. Derek just tells them to wait. To let him and Peter handle it. Like Derek is actually handling it. Like Peter really cares.

Well, Stiles isn’t so sure about that anymore.

He’d been absolutely certain, without doubt, that Peter would have thrown his own sister under the bus just to stop it so he could walk across the street to grab a latte. He was sure that Peter had an angle, that he was playing some game, that there was something he was going to get out of making the deal with Deucalion.

Now he’s not so sure. He still doesn’t trust Peter. The man’s motivations are unknown and it’s already been proven that his moral compass only points in the direction of his goals, whatever those goals are.

Still, the payout would have to be _really_ great considering what it seems like Peter has been going through.

Stiles bites his lip and taps his fingers frenetically against his keyboard. This whole situation has been way too weird to parse and he’s sure they’re missing a ton of information about it. Most of the others have seemed happy to sacrifice Peter to Deucalion if it helps them or gives them an advantage, but they hadn’t seen him after the first visit with the pizza. They hadn’t seen him with black-blue bruises around his neck and a bleeding bite mark on his shoulder. They hadn’t seen him starved and exhausted and _joking_ about it like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t hurting him.

Stiles huffs. He hasn’t told Derek or the others about the mating bite thing. Mostly because he understands the desire to never _ever_ have that information become common knowledge. If they win it won’t matter, and if they lose, well, it becomes a pretty moot point. So he’s respected Peter’s wishes on that. He gets it. He just wishes everyone else really understood what Peter was suffering through for them…if it is indeed for them and not for some other reason.

Stiles shoves his chair away from the desk in disgust. Even he can’t trust Peter. He doesn’t even think he _should_.

It’s _frustrating_.

They’ve been trying to think of a plan regardless of what Peter and Derek have told them. He and Scott and Allison and Lydia have been trying to think of a strategy. Lydia’s been translating the bestiary and Allison has been snooping through her father’s records (though Stiles is pretty sure that Chris knows all about that). He and Scott have just been trying to understand the intricacies of the situation, the players and what they want, the history of it and all the werewolf etiquette that they don’t know (What _is_ an alpha pack? Have there been any before?). He’s even started badgering Deaton about telling him more about what being a Spark is every time he goes to pick Scott up from the vet’s, cause invisibility runes? He’ll take _twenty_. That probably wasn’t the best request to lead with so he hasn’t made much progress yet.

It’s all been pretty ineffective so far. Like the next thing over from completely freakin’ useless. He’s now learned so many more things than he ever wanted to know about mythical beasts and monsters and magical plagues and curses. He used to think the biggest dangers out there were bank robbers and not getting into college. Ha. Ha freakin’ ha. The world is a scary, scary place.

There’s a faint howl and Stiles shivers. The alphas. Supposedly they’re safe right now. They don’t feel safe. Like Peter said, the only thing actually keeping them alive is Deucalion’s word and Stiles isn’t that inclined to trust it himself. Still, he shudders to think what might have happened if Peter hadn’t volunteered to take one for the team.

There’s another howl and Stiles startles, nearly tipping his office chair over. It’s a _lot_ closer than the other one. What the hell is going on? Everyone knows there are no wolves in California. The alphas surely wouldn’t be that obvious. Stiles stands and gets his phone out, ready to call Scott or Derek or someone with fangs and claws or a gun maybe. The howling could even _be_ Derek or the others. Whoever it is something is going down and he wants to be ready to find out what.

He swipes his phone out of sleep mode just as _the doorbell rings_? What?

Stiles hesitates for a second. The alphas are pretty odd but he just can’t imagine them ringing _his_ doorbell of all things. So after that moment of hesitation he grabs the pepper spray he keeps around and heads to the door. They have a peephole, after all.

As he heads downstairs, almost tripping on the last step but recovering enough not to crash into the ground, he hears scratching at the door and several distressed yelps.

He hesitates to approach the door. He’s never seen any of the wolves make these noises or act this way, but there’s no reason it would be one of the alphas. Stiles approaches the door cautiously, slowly, with his hand on the pepper spray. It won’t do much, but it should give him enough time to dial help. The scratching gets softer and less frequent and the yelps devolve into a series of high whines with the occasional bark interspersed.

Plus, it’s not like werewolves have vampire laws. They don’t need to ask permission to break down the door to your house and stroll inside. That’s what the alphas would do. That’s what an enemy would do, so it _should_ be an ally. Should is quickly becoming Stiles’ least favorite word.

Stiles steals himself and glances through the peephole and sees nothing. There’s still some scratching, though, so whoever it is is on the ground.

Stiles fills his lungs with air, so that if he’s badly miscalculated he’ll be totally ready to scream bloody murder right before, well, right before the bloody murder commences.

Then he opens the door, swinging it suddenly inward and brandishing the mace and…

It’s a wolf. Not a _werewolf_ , a wolf-wolf, a four-legged dog-ancestor wolf and it’s _big_. But of course it’s not a wolf. There aren’t any wolves in California, so it has to be one of the werewolves.

“Shit.” Stiles says. The wolf is folded up on the porch, lying low on its belly with its (huge) paws next to its (huge) head (which is presumably full of huge teeth). It looks up at him dolefully with startling bright blue eyes and whines tilting its head.

“Peter?” Stiles asks, skeptical, glancing around his neighborhood to try to determine whether anyone is watching, because maybe he could try to convince someone that Peter is a dog if they didn’t see him that well, but he really doesn’t look like a dog. The wolf just closes its eyes.

“Look, jeez, come inside before someone sees you.” Stiles says urgently, but the wolf doesn’t move. Maybe it isn’t Peter. Maybe a wolf has escaped from a zoo somewhere. That would be just his luck, to survive a crazed alpha, a crazed hunter, a crazed lizardman only to get eaten by an actual wolf in a freak accident.

Still, he can’t just wait around with what is obviously not a domestic animal on his porch. “Peter, just,” he makes a frustrated noise, “just come on.”

The wolf rolls its head to the side a bit, stretches towards him and whines pitifully. Stiles looks Peter over again. He’s breathing quickly, shallowly and there are fine tremors running through his back and haunches. And he’s not sitting, so much as collapsed.

Stiles is loath to touch Peter or any wolf in this condition. Even humans can be unpredictable when they’re injured and disoriented. But it’s obvious that Peter needs help and he’s not going to get it on Stiles’ porch so Stiles kneels by inches and reaches out very slowly to touch what might be a damaged psychotic werewolf or an actual wolf (he can’t decide which could turn out worse). He gently lets his fingers touch the thick brown-black fur of its nape. The wolf flinches and opens its eyes at the first brush of his fingers and Stiles freezes, but the eyes close again and Stiles tentatively continues, sliding his fingers through the fur until he meets the resistance of skin and…wet?

Stiles withdraws his hand and sucks in a breath. Peter (and he really needs to somehow confirm that it’s Peter) is bleeding.

“Ok,” he says to himself more than Peter, “Ok, we can do this. Everything is gonna be ok.” His hands are shaking, but he puts them back on Peter’s nape.

“Ok, we’re gonna take care of you, Peter, but we gotta get you into the house first, ok? You gotta help me out here.” Stiles says, bending to look straight at the wolf’s eyes, feeling a little silly for talking to Peter Hale like this.

Peter stares at him and then his muscles bunch and ripple under Stiles’ hand as he prepares to move. Stiles steps back to give him room (and maybe just in case he’s preparing to go for his jugular), but Peter just hauls himself up and he’s fucking tall too, coming up to Stiles’ waist at the shoulder, which is all Stiles can tell because his head is hanging low as he limps into the house.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to keep the rage from bubbling out if him in the form of a scream. Maybe it’s that Peter is now in the form of a beautiful proud predator and he still looks absolutely wrecked. Maybe it’s just that he, Stiles Stilinski, resident token human, offered Peter Hale, the baddest, most experienced, cleverest wolf in their pack, a safe haven if things went bad and he _took it_.

Things must be really, really bad. Not just for Peter, but if Peter’s here like this there’s a pretty good chance the deal with the alphas is off and if that’s true, they’re probably all about to get slaughtered.

Peter makes it through the front door, just far enough into the house that Stiles can close the door, which he does quickly (he’s convinced his dad has paid some of the elderly neighbors to keep an eye on him). He looks back at Peter who is just standing there watching Stiles, his head bowed, his tail limp.

Stiles blushes. He’s almost glad Peter’s in wolf form. He wouldn’t know how to deal with Peter like this in human form, but this way he can at least pretend this isn’t about Peter sacrificing himself (and in ways that Stiles really doesn’t want to think about) for their safety. So he huffs past it and decides to just act as normal as possible and do what needs to be done.

“You can come in, you know.” He says, standing in the hall next to Peter. “Come on.” He says, leading the way into the living room, looking behind to make sure that Peter follows. He does, limping slowly, slinking cautiously into the room, casting his gaze into all the corners as if he were afraid of being ambushed.

“Just you and me, buddy.” Stiles says, trying to be comforting and keep talking, although some part of him reminds him that Peter Hale isn’t necessarily the safest person to be alone with.

Peter stands in the middle of the room looking around like he’s lost, but doesn’t particularly care.

“You can make yourself at home.” Stiles says. He has no idea what else to say. He’s so very far out of his depth here. Obviously Peter doesn’t want to or can’t change back. He seems to understand what Stiles says, but he doesn’t seem terribly interested in reciprocating.

Peter looks up at him for a moment, then to the couch, which he makes his slow way over to and heaves himself up on. He lies down taking up nearly the entire length of the couch and closes his eyes.

Well, Stiles thinks, at least Peter’s being his usual helpful, informative self. It’s not quite fair, since Peter has been telling Stiles a lot more recently, but he’s keeping a hell of a lot more to himself. And now that Peter is lying still in the bright light of Stiles’ living room Stiles can see there’s more blood in the thick fur than he had first thought.

“Peter.” He says.

Peter opens a lazy eye then closes it and turns his face away into the couch with a whine.

Stiles throws his arms into the air. Scott is the one who knows about animal injuries. Stiles doesn’t even know where to start. Dogs usually need water, right. So maybe he should get a pot and fill it with water…Stiles makes a disgusted noise and lets his head fall into his hands.

“You’re not being very helpful here, you know.” Stiles snaps at the giant predator.

There’s no reaction.

“Look I know you came here for help, obviously, but I don’t know what to do. Just give me a hint. I’m very intuitive.” Stiles tries again. “Do you want water? Should I get you a bowl of water?”

Peter huffs.

“I don’t know what that means, asshole.” Stiles says.

No response.

“Are you _stuck_ like this?” Stiles asks, trying to get a better angle so that he can see Peter’s face, not that he would really know how to read wolf facial expressions.

“What’s the point of coming here if you won’t let me help you?” Stiles tries to cajole him one last time, appealing to Peter’s sense of reason. If he continues not to answer hopefully it’s because he doesn’t need anything, just a safe place and time.

Peter’s ears twitch slightly toward Stiles and Peter raises his head to look at Stiles again.

“I don’t know what your staring means either.” Stiles says with slight annoyance.

The wolf gazes around and then rises slightly, stretching his neck up and delicately taking the corner of the afghan they keep folded over the back of the couch in his mouth, tugging it down a little. Then he looks back at Stiles, as if to say, ‘do you understand _this_ , idiot?’

Stiles stares skeptically and then gets up. Peter watches him warily, but Stiles takes the blanket, unfolds it, shakes it out and lays it gently over Peter.

Peter watches him as he does this and when he steps back gives Stiles another huff and closes his eyes again.

Stiles rolls his eyes and says. “I still don’t know what that means and I’m calling Mr. Argent.”

Peter huffs, not even bothering to open his eyes.


	28. In Which Chris Argent Takes Over as Narrator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More more more more more more! :D I hope you all enjoy!!! As always, next update August 19th! :D Also, I'm adding Petopher to the tags...endgame has become Petopherlion: Peter/Deucalion/Chris. I hope nobody feels too misled :O I didn't plan this....>.>

Stiles briefly debates whom he should call. His first instinct is to call Scott to make sure he’s safe and to have someone to share this fucking weird experience with. He also thinks about calling Deaton. Peter’s clearly not turning back and he’s injured, so maybe a veterinarian really is called for. The fact that Deaton knows about werewolves is yet another plus, but all the info he’s been keeping from them is a bit of a downer. He knows that Scott trusts Deaton, but Stiles just can’t bring himself to do the same. The man clearly has his own agenda.

He also thinks briefly about calling Derek. It’s his uncle after all and Derek knows some werewolf things, but he doesn’t want to give up Peter’s secrets and, well, Derek isn’t all that helpful in emotionally charged situations let alone emotionally charged situations that involve Peter. It’s just really complicated between them, with good reason.

But of course, regardless of how nonchalant Peter has been about it, Stiles knows that he’s not allowed to have contact with the pack. He doesn’t know what kind of punishments Deucalion’s been meting out, but he’s seen enough to know that it’s not something he wants to contribute to.

Stiles scratches his fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Chris Argent it is. He’s the only one who is up to speed on Peter’s situation, is clearly working with them and has enough knowledge about werewolves that he might be useful.

 

“Argent.” Chris answers, grabbing his phone and accepting the call without bothering to look at the ID.

“Uh, Mr. Argent?” Stiles voice comes across tinny, “I think we have a problem.”

Chris wants to heave a sigh and ask the teenager what the problem is. He wants to believe that Stiles is maybe just calling him because he’s nervous about an upcoming test or asking a girl to prom, but that’s not what Stiles is calling about and he has to take the problem to be an emergency.

“What is it and why aren’t you sure?” Chris asks.

“Peter’s at my house and, uh, he’s a little _furrier_ than usual.”

“What do you mean? He’s wolfed out?” Chris asks, using the terminology he knows the kids are familiar with. Stiles wouldn’t be calling him if Peter were behaving normally, even if he were wolfed out.

“I mean he’s walking around on all fours and wouldn’t look out of place in a zoo.” Stiles says flatly.

“He’s transformed completely?” Chris asks, sitting up abruptly.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not super intimate with wolves, but he looks like a wolf.” Stiles says. “Is that normal? Do werewolves do that?”

“It’s rare.” Chris says, “Only very powerful wolves can make the full change.” He would have bet his life that Peter wasn’t that powerful. “Are you safe? What is he doing?”

Stiles scoffs, “Well, right now he’s just bleeding on my couch. I’m fine. I’m in better shape than he is.”

Chris rubs a temple with his free hand. That does seem like a problem, but of course not a straightforward one. At least it doesn’t seem like Peter is rabid. Still, wild animals can get out of hand very quickly, all it would take is the wrong move.

“Is that all?” Chris asks. “He’s just sitting there?”

“Yeah, man.” Stiles says, sounding as frustrated as Chris feels, “He just shows up at the door, howling, in the middle of the afternoonand _rings the doorbell_. Then he just scratched at the door until I let him in. He limped over to the couch and there he lies.”

Chris hears some shuffling and the sound of footsteps.

“Something must have happened.” Stiles says, voice low and quiet, as though he doesn’t want the wolf in the next room to hear. It is probably a useless effort. The wolves hear practically everything. “He can sort of understand what I’m saying, I think, but he’s not really responding. He’s injured, too, though I don’t think it’s urgent. I just…” Stiles sighs, “I don’t know what to _do_ with him. I got him some water in a bowl, but he hasn’t had any. I don’t even know for sure if it _is_ Peter.”

“If he’s not in control he’s not safe. Keep your movements slow and calm. Get out of the house, lock him in and I’ll…”

“No.” Stiles says, “No, I’m gonna stay with him.”

“Stiles, it’s _not safe_.” Chris emphasizes. “All it will take is one wrong move if he thinks you’re a threat. How well do you think you’ll fare against a wolf?”

“Listen, I told him if he needed to, he could come here.” Stiles says stubbornly, “He came here because he _needed to_ , but I don’t know how to help him. Do you know how to help him?”

Chris frowns, “I don’t know, but I’m coming over there.”

“Yeah, please do.” Stiles says, pissily, “Cause I don’t know how I’m going to convince my dad that a _wolf_ just _followed_ me home.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Chris says.

 

Chris knocks softly on the door of the Sitlinski residence; he doesn’t want to startle Peter if there’s a chance that he’ll lose control.

And who knows what might set him off? Not Chris, that’s for sure. He’s more used to killing wolves who get to this point than trying to bring them back from the edge and from what Stiles has said over the phone, Peter is definitely on the edge, if not over it.

Chris has brought all the supplies he thinks could be useful: first aid, sutures, sedatives, and painkillers. Then there’s the wolfsbane, a few guns, a variety of knives, rope, wire, handcuffs, a taser and some things he doesn’t even know what his reason for bringing them was.

Most of it he leaves in the car anyway.

The first aid kits are in his hands, the taser and gun are on his belt and a knife is in his boot and sleeves when Stiles opens the door and beckons him in quickly with furtive glances around the neighborhood. Chris raises a brow at him and Stiles frowns.

“I think my dad has the old ladies watching me.” He confides.

Chris rolls his eyes, though on second though he wouldn’t put it past the sheriff and, to be fair, if anyone needed watching it was Stiles.

“Where is he?” Chris asks. He’s here for a reason. He’s here for Peter, one way or another.

“In here.” Stiles says waving Chris into the living room. “I think he’s sleeping.” There’s a pause as Chris follows him through the hall. “Actually,” Stiles amends sounding concerned, “I think he may be unconscious.”

Chris’ lungs stutter to a halt as he rounds the corner.

It’s a wolf for sure, a very large wolf, though an average to small werewolf from what Chris has heard.

He’s beautiful with a tapered snout and large delicate ears. His pelt is a deep sable on the chest and black everywhere else with silvered tips through his tail and on his haunches.

 “Should he really have that blanket on him?” Chris asks, recalling vaguely that dogs can easily overheat.

Stiles shrugs, “I dunno. He wanted it, so I let him have it.”

Even with the old mustard yellow knitted afghan he would be absolutely stunning if he weren’t so obviously wrecked. His fur is shiny with blood and one of his hind legs looks broken.

Chris takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts.

“Peter.” Chris tries from across the room to gauge the wolf’s reactions. His ears swivel slightly towards the sound of Chris, so he’s conscious at least.

Chris sets the first aid kits down on the floor. He won’t need them until he can tell what the damage is. He prepares to approach the wolf.

“Peter, can you understand me?” Chris asks taking a small cautious step forward.

Peter shifts his head and Chris tenses ready to go for a weapon but Peter just opens his eyes wide and whines softly, tail tucking under.

Chris can see why Stiles was so adamant about staying with Peter like this. He’s no threat. He looks like he might just curl up and die if someone so much as called him a ‘bad dog’. Chris clenches his hands into fists.

This isn’t right. This isn’t the Peter Hale he knows. They should never have let Peter go with Deucalion. _He_ should have put a stop to this when he found out about the mating bite, if not before. It’s unconscionable that they all sat around and let this happen.

And maybe the children didn’t know or couldn’t understand. Peter was the oldest wolf in a pack full of teenagers, what else could they have done? What else could Peter have done?

But that’s no excuse for Chris. He had known, or at least suspected when Allison had first told him about the situation. When he’d seen the bite on Peter’s neck he had known. Sure he might’ve convinced himself that there was some selfish reason behind it all, but deep down he had known. He had read the truth in Peter’s body language and in the silences he kept. None of it changed the fact that he had willingly allowed Peter to go into that situation. And for what? Because he didn’t care what happened to a wolf? Because he wanted to hurt the man who killed his sister? Because he was happy to sacrifice Peter to save the others?

It didn’t matter. The reason didn’t matter. These were the consequences. They had let this happen. He had known and he had let this happen.

Chris unclenches his hands and lets out a breath slowly. It takes effort to push the anger to the back of his mind, something to save and use later. He’s going to fix what he can now and then he’s going to make sure nothing like this happens again.

“Peter.” He says much more softly, “I’m going to come closer, is that alright?”

The wolf just stares at him dolefully and presses deeply into the couch.

“He does that a lot.” Stiles says and Chris just barely manages not to jump. He’d almost forgotten Stiles was there, “The staring to answer a question thing, I mean.”

 “He let you close, though?” Chris confirms.

“Yeah, let me touch him too.” Stiles shrugs. “I don’t think he’d try to fight back even if you told him you were gonna take your gun out and shoot him in the head.”

Chris can hear the same anger buzzing in an undercurrent to Stiles’ irreverent comment. The same questions and censure: they had just let Peter do this. Could they have stopped him?

Stiles states the damage so brutally so they don’t forget, can’t ignore the parts they played in Peter’s pain.

He doesn’t necessarily disagree with Stiles’s interpretation of the situation either, but he’s not going to take chances either.

“Take this.” Chris says, handing Stiles the large taser wand. “Open it by pressing this down.” He shows Stiles the button under his finger, “Flip it open.” He flicks his wrist and the wand extends. “Engage electricity.” He shows Stiles the large switch that turns it on.

Stiles is waving his hands, “I’ll pass, dude.”

“No, you won’t, because you won’t be using it to protect just yourself. You’re going to use it to protect _me_.” Chris emphasizes. “It won’t kill him, just stop him.”

Stiles’ face hardens and then he takes the taser.

“Show me.” Chris says.

Stiles flicks it out, with a slight fumble, then clicks the electricity on. Chris nods, satisfied with Stiles’ abilities. Taser wands aren’t really weapons of finesse.

Then Chris turns back to Peter.

He takes slow small steps towards the wolf trying to look nonthreatening while simultaneously remaining vigilant enough to draw his gun at any hint of movement.

But Peter is still and quiet through his approach, watching Chris inch towards him like he’s trying to be encouraging.

“Peter,” Chris says again hoping, probably in vain, that repetition of his name will recall his human identity, “I’m going to touch you now to see how badly you’re injured.”

He explains calmly, as though to a human…well, maybe a somewhat concussed human.

“I might hurt you by accident. Please don’t bite me.” Chris sighs. At least Peter’s not an alpha anymore.

The wolf shows no signs of understanding but he also shows no aggression when Chris begins to reach out towards a patch of blood, the one of Peter’s nape, a somewhat neutral location.

Chris holds his breath as he makes contact with the fur, but Peter just closes his eyes. He’s relaxed, comfortable.

Chris shakes his head. Peter, at least this version of Peter, trusts them. It could be disorientation and confusion, perhaps Peter doesn’t recognize them, or perhaps he’s conning them both and just knows his audience very, very well.

Chris sets to work, confident that the wolf is no immediate threat, though he remains alert to reflexive attacks. He cards gently through the fur trying to determine the extent of the wounds.

As far as werewolf fights go, Peter is not that badly off. There are two sets of claw marks and his hind leg is indeed broken, but he’ll certainly heal within a day, maybe two or three for the break.

It still doesn’t explain the sudden shift from bipedal to quadrupedal.

Chris knows that there is some ability among werewolves to exchange or share memories and he recognizes the marks on Peter’s nape as being of a similar pattern, but he doesn’t know how it works, if it even is the mark of memory sharing or what it might have to do with Peter’s new form.

In fact, the only thing Chris has definitively determined is that he’s well out of his depth.

He leans back with a sigh and Peter opens one lazy eye to track his movements before drifting shut again.

“Call Deaton.” He tells Stiles. “Tell him lacerations and a broken leg.”

Stiles nods without flinching. He’s a tough kid and he’s learning fast. He’ll be a powerful force in the supernatural goings on in Beacon Hills if he survives long enough.

Chris sits on the coffee table next to couch with Peter in silence, dimly aware of Stiles phoning Deaton in the kitchen.

What a mess, he thinks, as he watches Peter breathe.

“Do you remember when things were simple?” Chris asks leaning his elbows on his knees.

Peter opens his blue, blue eyes and stares, as if to say, you mean when you would indiscriminately assign ‘good’ and ‘evil’ to people based on their supernatural abilities rather than their actions? You mean before the ashes of my family colored your world shades of grey instead of black and white?

Chris sighs. “You’d think you would be easier to talk to like this, but no.”

Peter closes his eyes and huffs once.

“He does that a lot too.” Stiles says, having returned, “Deaton says he’ll be here in twenty and not to worry. Apparently wolf form does not mean feral so,” he says as he moves to sit next to Chris on the coffee table, “I guess now we wait.”

Chris doesn’t disagree, but he can’t help thinking ‘unless we’ve waited too long already’.

 

Deaton’s footsteps are heavy on the front porch from the silent interior of the house. Chris and Stiles keep watch over Peter but it feels more like a wake than a sickbed. Peter seems the least perturbed of the three of them, content to wait and rest and heal.

There is a pause between Deaton reaching the porch and a sudden crash rings out as someone, who it is now obvious is _not_ Deaton, kicks the door in.

Stiles freezes, but Chris is in motion, drawing his gun as he whips around and immediately dropping it to the floor and raising his arms in surrender as soon as he realizes he’s pointing his pistol at the Sheriff.

Everyone takes a moment to process, a pause that is probably the only thing that saves them from bloodshed.

Then Stiles simply says, “Heeey, dad.” And Chris watches his eyes dart around to each piece of evidence, no doubt trying to think of some explanation that in no way involves the word “werewolves”.

Chris is more concerned by the fact that the Sheriff has a powerful sidearm trained on a suddenly very alert werewolf. Before the Sheriff can voice his no doubt profound confusion Chris steps between the Sheriff and the wolf.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sheriff Stilinski growls, mostly to Chris.


	29. In Which There Are Many Revelations

Chris keeps his hands raised in the surrender position, but continues to maneuver as the Sheriff tries to get the wolf in his sights.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” Chris says, “There’s no danger here. Maybe you could lower your weapon?”

Stilinski looks at Chris incredulous lowering his gun slightly so that it isn’t point at Chris, “That’s really a wolf, isn’t it? We got calls, but I thought for sure it would turn out to be a dog.”

“Yeah, no, it’s a wolf.” Stiles says, “Obviously. I mean it’s obvious that it’s a wolf. We think it’s someone’s pet though. It’s totally well behaved.”

Chris feels an overwhelming amount of pity for the Sheriff. The poor man just looks so exhausted and confused, like he mistakenly ended up in someone else’s LSD dream.

“Stiles, just tell your father the truth.” Chris says with an eye roll. It’s time. And what with the alphas they may need the Sheriff in the know.

Stilinski turns to his son as he lowers his weapon, though he does not holster it, “Stiles,” he says, “Tell me this isn’t your wolf.”

Stiles gapes and Chris almost laughs, except there’s this small part of him that thinks it’s a silly question for the sheriff to ask. _It seems obvious that if he were anyone’s wolf he would be mine._ How would a young boy get a wolf anyway? Chris is a licensed international arms dealer. He could easily get access that kind of animal. Chris shakes his head not sure why the thought even occurred to him. It’s irrelevant.

Of course that’s when Deaton shows up stepping daintily over the half-unhinged door that had been the casualty of the Sheriff’s enthusiastic entrance.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” Deaton asks in his usual mild voice.

Stilinski’s eyebrows fly into his hairline, “You called the vet before you called me?”

“Well, we didn’t need you.” Stiles tries to explain “Look at him, he’s fine.” He says gesturing towards Peter, “I mean, he’s not fine. That’s why we called the vet.”

Chris steps aside so that Stilinski can see Peter, but he makes sure to take the step closer towards Peter. He isn’t sure what, if anything, might set the wolf off, but his guess is that if everyone just calms down they’ll be perfectly fine.

Peter is up and alert, watching the Sheriff with his large blue eyes, but he’s obviously comfortable in a room full of people.

The Sheriff sighs and turns to Deaton, “Please, come in. This poor guy looks like he got himself into plenty of trouble, wherever he came from.”

Deaton approaches Peter. Chris leaves his post next to Peter to make room and goes to stand by Stiles.

“You need to tell him.” Chris says softly, “He’s going to find out and it will terrify him.” Chris admits, as one father speaking for another, “But he’ll be far more terrified if he finds out some other way and realizes you’ve been keeping this secret. That you might never have trusted him enough to tell him.”

“It’s not about trust.” Stiles begins to explain and Chris knows exactly what he means, but it doesn’t matter.

“It will be to him.” Chris says firmly.

Then Scott walks through the door with two bags from the vet’s office and several things happen at once.

Peter startles and squirms suddenly, yelping when he jostles his broken leg. Deaton draws back from where he was examining Peter’s injuries and the Sheriff’s hand darts to his gun again.

Everyone freezes until it becomes clear that Peter is not going to attack. Instead he looks like he’s trying to melt into the couch. Scott takes a cautious step forward and Peter wriggles further back on the couch with a high pitched whine.

Chris’ jaw tightens. He shouldn’t be moving with that leg, let alone the other injures. He’s about to move to intercept Scott, who has stopped anyway, but Stiles gets there first.

“Scott, hey man, what are you doing here?” Stiles asks quietly, not sure how his friend came to be involved, but it’s clear that Deaton brought him along. No doubt he was working at the clinic when Stiles made the call.

“Dude, is that Peter? What’s going on?” Scott asks before Stiles can signal to him to be silent. “Oh, hey, Sheriff.” Scott says awkwardly, “Stiles already told me he named the wolf.”

“Scott, just…” Stiles sighs and looks at his father for a long moment, “We’re gonna go show my dad. Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.” He says with a glance at Peter whose eyes are trained on Scott and whose ears are pinned back.

“It’s alright, Scott.” Deaton says, “I think we have things well in hand here. The Sheriff should know.”

“Stiles…” the Sheriff says seriously, no doubt imagining all sorts of terrible secrets that his son might need to reveal, none of which will likely be close to the truth.

Stiles glances briefly towards Chris, a call for reinforcements, but the boy has a werewolf to show his father. Nothing Chris can say will be more persuasive than proof itself.

“I’m staying with Peter.” He says, watching the agitated wolf quiver under the admittedly pitying gaze of a foreign alpha. A true alpha.

Chris hadn’t been able to resist rolling his eyes when he’d heard that one, but on his second consideration he could see it. Scott is just a boy now, but he has convictions, the good kind.

Once Stiles, Scott and the Sheriff had all processed out to the kitchen Peter began to tentatively relax. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by Deaton, giving the vet a sullen look as he goes to retrieve the bags that Scott had left.

“Do you know why he’s like this? Chris asks when Deaton offers no insight, “The back of his neck—“

“Yes,” Deaton interrupts, “The memory transfer is likely what caused the transformation. If the rest of his injuries are as superficial as they look, then I have no doubt that’s what happened.”

Deaton’s hands are steady as they probe each injury and Peter is calm and still throughout his ministrations, though his ears remain back. He’s pouting, Chris realizes.

“But how would a memory cause _this_?”

Deaton sighs and leans back searching for something in his bag.

“Contrary to popular belief, the ability to fully take the shape of a wolf has little to do with power.” Deaton explains, “The wolf form is intrinsically linked with self acceptance. When the rational side and instinctual side of the mind are in harmony it’s easy for a shape shifter to go from one form to the other.”

Chris watches Peter’s glum appraisal of the two of them and senses there’s more to come, “He doesn’t seem particularly in balance to me.”

“No.” Deaton agrees as he draws out a small bottle of liquid from his bag and a needle to go with it. “He’s not. He’s overshot the balanced position and gone straight to instincts. Something has caused his rational mind to retreat. It’s not a common occurrence for werewolves to make the change when traumatized. It’s fairly difficult to traumatize a werewolf, but it’s not unheard of.”

“Traumatized.” Chris repeats, mostly to himself.

“Not just emotionally, but physically as well.” Deaton adds as he draws out a dosage with the hypodermic. “Having an alpha poke around in your brain can cause some damage, but in ordinary cases it’s quickly healed. Perhaps he wasn’t injured long ago, or it could be that Deucalion caused more damage than usual.” Deaton shakes his head, steadily pressing the needle into Peter’s haunch, without so much as a whimper from the wolf.

Chris is about to dig deeper. He’s curious, of course. It’s always good to have more information, especially about someone who plays their cards as close to the chest as Peter Hale does, but just then they have another visitor, who practically comes barreling into the hall.

Chris’ hand is on his gun before he knows who will come through the door next. Although they are dealing with Peter first, the alphas are still their biggest problem. Peter is just the problem that they (might) know how to solve.

“Where is h—“ Derek Hale begins to demand, bristling at the sight of Chris Argent and his weapon in the vicinity of, well, who knows what Derek has been told. _Who told him anything at all?_ Chris wonders. _Not Stiles. It must have been Scott._

Before Derek can get to fully bristled however he catches sight of Peter and immediately begins to deflate. He pales and Chris almost thinks he might faint. He certainly stops breathing for a solid few seconds.

“He looks just like—“ Derek chokes out, though he seems less aware of their presence in the room and more like he’s explaining to himself why he’s had such a strong reaction to his errant uncle.

“Yes,” Deaton agrees, “There is a certain family resemblance.”

Talia, Chris thinks. It was rumored that the Hale matriarch could take the form of a wolf. It had never been confirmed by hunters, but Chris had believed it then and he sure as hell believes it now.

Derek takes a jerky step forward. Peter’s eyes are slipping closed, the sedative taking effect, but he manages a joyful bark and a weak wag of the tail before succumbing to the drug.

“What happened?” Derek asks, drawn forward, like the witness of a car crash towards the scene of the accident.

“Deucalion.” Chris spits. “What else?”

“The darach…” Derek starts to say. Of course the boy had known they had called on Jennifer Blake. He wouldn’t have known that Chris had gone as well.

“He must have found out.” Chris says to himself. “That’s why he did this.”

Derek snaps out of his stupor, focusing on Chris as if seeing him for the first time.

“What did you do?” The Hale alpha growls.

“More than you.” Chris says. How dare this up jumped mongrel accuse him of—How dare he assume— _The alpha pack is here because of you. Peter is like this because of you. Your family suffering again because of you._ He doesn’t speak these thoughts, because he’s no more innocent than Derek is.

But what he’s already said is provocation enough. Derek growls and his eyes glow red. Chris puts a hand on his taser and briefly wonders what the Sheriff will do if a fight breaks out in his house.

“Enough.” Deaton shouts, well, he doesn’t raise his voice, but somehow it seems like a shout all the same.

Derek forcibly relaxes and grits out, “I would like to know what happened to my uncle.”

“We aren’t completely sure.” Deaton says calmly, “He showed up on Stiles’ doorstep as you see him.”

“Is he…?” Derek begins and then begins again, “Will he live?”

“Yes, he’ll live. He’s not that badly injured. I’ve just given him a sedative to prevent any accidents. It will knock him out until he heals enough to change back, which he should do naturally.”

Derek digests that news for a moment, relief turning him briefly mute. Then he turns to Chris, “What did you mean about the darach?”

“We went to confront her. Peter made a deal with her. He offered her Deucalion.” Chris says, mentally going over everything Peter has said and done, every move he’s made since the beginning of this. It’s obvious by this point that Peter never intended to use the mistletoe plan he had outlined for Stiles and himself.

It’s so simple in the end. It’s so obvious. It would have been easy to see if they hadn’t all been so suspicious of Peter’s involvement.

“He’s orchestrating a prize fight. He’s pitting them against each other.” Chris says with slight wonder. “He’s giving each of them what they want.”

“How will he get them to confront each other? They’ve been chasing each other back and forth across the entire country for months.” Deaton supplies and Chris wonders how Deaton knew that little gem.

“He’s offering them each an advantage. The same advantage.” Chris says, finally working out the last puzzle piece, “Himself.”

 

 

That revelation seems to deflate the animosity in the room, if not the tension. Derek moves forward and Deaton and Chris shift out of the way to give him room. It is his uncle after all.

“How’s your sister?” Chris asks, remembering that Derek is not the only person who can claim Peter as an uncle.

“She’s resting.” Derek says, distracted enough by his injured uncle that he forgets to snap at Chris for presuming to ask after his family’s health.

Derek’s veins run black with his uncle’s pain, but only for a short time. It seems Deaton is right, the real injury is not to Peter’s flesh, but to his mind.

Now they have nothing to do but wait.

Except they may not have time.

“What are we going to do about Deucalion now?” Chris asks.

Deaton looks thoughtful. “If you found the darach and Deucalion searched Peter’s mind then he knows her identity too. Most likely they’re hunting her right now.”

“But will they find her?” Chris asks.

“Unlikely.” Deaton says, “She’s eluded them before and she’s much more powerful now.”

“We should leave.” Derek says quietly, still watching his uncle breathe. “Forget Beacon Hills. Deucalion won’t bother to look for us. We’re nothing to him.”

Chris is about to say that he’s not so sure that Deucalion will just let Peter go, though he’s likely right about the rest of them.

“This is home for some of us.” Scott says as he, Stiles and a stricken looking Sheriff return from the kitchen. “Maybe you could just go back to New York or wherever, but I have friends here. I have a life.”

“Yeah, we can’t just leave our classmates and neighbors to get sacrificed or mauled.” Stiles agrees.

The sheriff merely looks pensive. He’s clearly still processing the evening’s revelations. Chris can almost see the puzzle pieces slotting together in the sheriff’s mind, all the animal attacks, the missing people, the unsolved cases. Chris imagines it must be difficult to digest. He imagines because he’s known about the monsters his whole life. He never checked the closet or under the bed. He checked his .22 and his bowie knife.

“Peter was convinced that Deucalion would leave once he got what he came for.” Chris says. “It’s possible the situation will resolve itself.”

“ _If_ Deucalion is able to find the darach.” Deaton interjects, obviously skeptical of the likelihood of that outcome.

“Peter made the deal because we _can’t_ fight Deucalion.” Stiles says, “So either we fight and lose or we make a new deal.”

“We’re not—“ Chris stops himself abruptly to collect his thoughts, “We don’t even know what Peter’s plan was, so even if we could make a new deal, there’s no benefit to us. There’s no way to control the outcome and make sure that it’s to our benefit.”

“Yeah, Peter’s pretty good at that.” Stiles says with a wry smile, glancing over at the wolf.

Chris snorts. “He’s good at playing things close to the chest. He hasn’t told us everything. If he had we might be able to find a way out of this.”

Stiles shrugs, “That’s Peter for you. Although the impression that I got was that this is the only plan and that any backup plans would involve a lot more dying on our parts.”

“We don’t have to deal with Deucalion.” Derek says from his place watching over his uncle. “We could deal with the darach.”

Chris cocks his head. The boy is right, technically. If Peter was staging a prizefight with the intention of getting the two opponents to destroy each other, then the side they take doesn’t really matter.

“He chose Deucalion because they had a history: the devil he knew.” Derek continues, “We don’t know either of them, but I do know that the darach,” he growls out the word, “would be very interested in an alliance.”

“She approached you before.” Chris reminds himself, recalling Peter’s warning to Ms. Blake to stay away from both Cora and Derek.

He’s hesitant to send anyone, let alone Derek, into another hostage-alliance. He’s just not convinced that Derek will be able to pull off the subterfuge. Then again, without Peter protecting them they’re up for grabs.

Chris sighs in frustration. Of course Peter had somehow made himself the one thing that stood between them and their enemies, the lodestone holding a crumbling roof over their heads, the crux. He and Allison aren’t even supposed to be involved.

“If it comes to it,” Chris can’t believe he’s even _considering_ this, but things are different now, “we should ally with Deucalion.” He finally spits out.

Derek stands with an outraged snarl.

“Hear me out.” And Chris finds the possible necessity of doing anything but driving a spike through Deucalion’s skull _unspeakably_ distasteful but, “The alphas are already favored to win and they haven’t been sacrificing innocent people without regard. And it won’t make Peter more of a target than he’s already made himself.”

“Wait, what? How?” Stiles says skeptically.

“If we change sides and bring Peter with us you can bet Deucalion will single him out for retribution. It would be a personal vendetta.” That’s not even factoring in the mating bite. Chris doesn’t know if Derek would even be able to reinstate Peter into the Hale pack, not with Deucalion being so powerful.

If Peter had just _told_ them what he was planning they might have a few cards up their sleeves by now. They might have some advantage, some way to fight back. They might have been able to save him.

“We can’t do anything now.” Chris says, “Not until we know more. We don’t have to make a move until one of them forces us to.”

So they wait. The Sheriff leaves. He has his duties to perform and no doubt some things to think about. Deaton stays, mostly talking quietly to Scott. Chris doesn’t know what about, maybe advice on being a True Alpha, maybe algebra homework.

Stiles flits around nervously, perching next to Derek, who doesn’t leave his uncle’s side, then moving to the kitchen, bringing snacks for everyone (only Scott accepts although Deaton does take an offer of coffee). He asks Chris about the family history and Deaton about invisibility runes, and Chris doesn’t even want to know what that’s about.

Eventually the waiting is over.

“Peter?” Derek asks and everyone’s eyes are on the wolf. There’s movement, which is more than there has been for the past hour. The wolf wriggles and then stretches and then _stretches_ and his bones elongate and move under furred flesh that’s quickly receding into pink skin and joints are shifting, moving under that skin and it’s actually not as horrific as Chris thought it would be. He looks like someone who’s just shed their work clothes and put on the pair of pajamas that are the most comfortable and worn in and familiar.

Then the movement stops and it’s Peter, naked, modesty preserved only by the homey afghan, boneless and relaxed on the Stilinski couch, still and silent once again.

The damage is only more obvious now that the bruises can’t hide in fur, the long gashes caused by claws, the punctures at the back of his neck and on his shoulders, the bruises like dark cuffs around his wrists and ankles. They tell an ugly story. It’s obvious, at least to Chris, that these are not injuries incurred from a fight or a scuffle or a reprimand. He was running, trying to escape and they caught him and _held him down_.

“I’ll set that leg now.” Deaton says, as unperturbed as always. The limb in question is swollen and the bruises from that ankle extend up to the meaty part of his calf, a deep nearly black purple, dark pinks and sickening yellows. Like a sunset, Chris thinks strangely.

Derek growls as Deaton approaches, but Deaton isn’t cowed and Derek shifts out of his way to let him work.

Peter doesn’t move or make any further noise. He’s still thoroughly unconscious despite the shift back to human form.

The room sinks back into silence while Deaton works, probing the injury setting the bones back together and splinting the leg, all that is required for the broken bone of a werewolf.

Then it’s back to waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it a cliffhanger again? Well, at least some info was revealed. MUAHAHAHAH! Next update will be September 19 :D See you then! I hope you all enjoyed!


	30. In Which the Wolf Awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!! This chapter contains discussion of mental illness and brain injury!!! Also questions of the non-con dub-con nature of a relationship.

It only takes another half hour before Stiles cracks, “Ok. I want to know why he could change into a giant eight foot tall wolf-monster when he was an alpha, but everyone’s surprised now that he can turn into a normal wolf.” From his expression he’s been wondering about this for a while.

“He had a different form last year?” Deaton asks sharply and Chris tenses. This is clearly not something the veterinarian was expecting.

Derek looks over to Deaton, “He’s right. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks warily. Every time something unexpected happens it tends to be worse rather than better.

“It’s not supposed to be possible.” Derek replies.

“It is possible.” Deaton says. Stiles snorts in response and Chris concurs with the sentiment. Obviously it’s possible They’ve just seen the proof. “But it involves an extreme change in brain chemistry.”

“What?” Stiles says flatly, unimpressed with the succinct explanation.

“The shape a werewolf takes has to do with their physical traits as humans, a small human will make a small wolf, but additionally it has to do with personality and personality lives in the brain.”

“So becoming a werewolf is physically quantifiable as a change in the brain?” Chris asks. This is a disturbing revelation, confirming all his greatest fears about what place the ‘supernatural’ really holds in their world.

“Partially. There are other factors as well.” Deaton replies, frowning.

“What would cause that kind of change in brain chemistry?” Chris asks, dreading the answer. It always comes back to this.

Deaton sighs and meets Chris’ eyes. “The brain damage caused by asphyxiation could certainly cause such a change. Especially in Peter’s case, where it additionally led to a coma.”

Chris looks up to the ceiling.

“But he woke up from the coma before he turned into werewolf megazord.” Stiles sits up abruptly, “Are you saying he was still brain damaged _then_?”

“It’s certainly possible.” Deaton says, “Brain injuries are not well understood at the best of times. It’s especially complicated for werewolves. They have a greater ability to heal than humans, but without change the brain can’t remember or retain information.”

“But he didn’t seem—“ Stiles waves a hand around his head. “when we were fighting him.”

Deaton acknowledges the statement with a nod, “Brain injuries manifest themselves in all kinds of different ways. Prosopagnosia prevents people from recognizing faces. Those suffering from Broca’s Aphasia lose the ability to produce language, although they can still understand it perfectly. Wernicke’s Aphasia however involves the loss of understanding language. Then of course there are general personality changes.”

“You’re saying that the coma, the madness and the vendetta, all the killing he did, was the result of brain damage incurred by the fire.” Chris says. It always comes back to the fire. _Why_ had Kate…?

“The fact that his fully transformed shape was so significantly different tells me that, effectively, he was two different people at those times. We don’t know what form he might have taken before the fire. We’ll never know if he would have taken the same actions—“

“It doesn’t matter.”

The voice is small and hoarse and Chris strains his neck jerking over. Peter’s eyes are open, but there’s no light in them. The usual brilliant blue is a dull grey and it makes Chris feel nauseous in his bones.

“I did those things. Me in the past. Me in the present. Still me.” Peter mumbles.

Then he looks at Deaton like he’s mildly surprised to see anyone sitting next to him even though he had just responded to the man’s own statement. He scoots up to sitting gingerly, eyes wandering around the room taking attendance, shifting away from everything as soon as he sees it. Hardly an emotion breaks through the quiet confusion, but Chris can’t help but notice the alarm in his eyes when he sees Derek who has fallen back somewhat since Deaton has needed access to Peter.

His eyes retreat down and away having taken stock of the room. He’s just looking at his wrists, as if he might be able to read what had happened in the history of his bruises. He’s very quiet and still and small, like he is trying to negate the rest of existence, where usually he is trying to push his own influence into reality.

“What am I doing here?” he asks, honest confusion muffled by indifference. His voice is still rough, from screaming, no doubt, Chris thinks and grits his teeth.

It’s bone chilling to see Peter’s sharp mind so dull.

“We were going to ask you the same thing.” Deaton asks kindly, kneeling next to the couch, professionally soothing regardless of his personal feelings for Peter, whatever those might be. “Can you remember what happened, Peter? What’s the last thing you remember?”

Peter looks away, _far_ away his vision unfocused but searching, like someone trying to recall a dream. They wait for a response for a minute, then two, but none is forthcoming.

“Peter.” Chris says loudly. The man flinches, eyes flicking jerkily towards Chris, but he doesn’t meet Chris’ eyes. Hasn’t looked anyone in the eyes since he woke up.

“Just tell us the last thing you remember.” Deaton says once again.

Peter looks lost. He squeezes his eyes closed and frowns, like maybe blocking the present world out will help him recall the past. He nods to himself a few times, just barely, going through a list of facts or moments.

“I remember the darach. We went—“ Peter’s gaze almost makes it to Chris, not quite, but the intention is there. “We spoke to her. We had the deal. I thought we—we should have been—It was supposed to be over. She agreed.”

Peter is practically babbling now, but his voice is slow and halting and he’s telling them his thoughts. Peter, who never gives even the hint of an emotion unintentionally, is just rambling on about what he thought was going to happen. It’s fascinating and the information might be important, but it makes Chris feel dirty, like, well, like reading someone’s diary.

“Then we went back to the apartment.” Chris reminds him gently moving forward, “Do you remember that?”

He probably shouldn’t be giving hints or trying to push, but it’s always been part of his job to push when he’d rather not.

“Do you remember what we talked about?” He tests.

Peter’s brow furrows. “Coma.” He says decidedly.

“What happened after that, Peter?” Chris presses.

“I was wrong.” Peter mumbles to his bruise-ringed wrists. “Miscalculated. Stupid.” His hands curl into fists. “I should have killed him when he still trusted me. Now I’ll never get the chance.” He mumbles, sounding like a disappointed child.

He looks up at Chris suddenly, looks him right in the eye. “Didn’t you _hear_ me?”

It’s such a sudden change from the quiet timid confusion that Chris stutters, “What?” He closes his eyes and shakes his head to clear it, but when he opens them Peter is still staring and his eyes aren’t dull anymore. They’re fever-bright, burning. Chris clenches his jaw.

“Hear you what?” He asks, no idea whether Peter is talking about his previous statements or their conversation about the coma patients.

“Screaming.” Peter says, looking suddenly away into the distance, then back at Chris. “You live right there. I thought—” He pauses, then continues. “It would have been fitting. You didn’t get to hear us the first time. _She_ did, but you weren’t there.” And Peter’s eyes narrow and his voice darkens to a harsh whisper as he said the words, but he shifts just as quickly back to the tone of casual conversation. “I just wondered if this time you—”

Peter stops suddenly, mouth pressed together tightly, like he’s trying to physically hold the words inside. He looks suddenly concerned. His eyes slowly scan the room again, but this time Chris can tell that he’s seeing them.

He opens his mouth slowly, carefully and says, “I’m not making sense, am I?”

It’s painful, heart wrenching to watch Peter come back to himself so painstakingly, but he’s relieved to see that Peter seems to be coming back at all. He would leave. He would let Peter rebuild himself in private if he weren’t so worried the wolf would never come back.

Peter’s eyes are darting across each of their faces, unable to hold anyone’s gaze for long, but at least he’s meeting their eyes now, instead of just looking at a spot two feet from their shoulders. He shakes his head.

“What am I doing here?” he asks again, more urgently, like he’s realizing there are some greater implications to his memory loss and displacement, but he can’t quite remember what they are.

Chris looks towards Deaton and then Derek, unsure of how to answer. Stiles, however, has no hesitations and, as usual, just tells it like it is.

“You just showed up here, rang the doorbell and passed out on my couch.” Stiles says tone flippant, but his gaze is intensely focused. “Oh and you were shaped like an actual wolf, so there’s that too.”

Peter meets Stiles’ gaze with no hesitation at that revelation, “That’s not possible.” He chokes out.

“Tell me about it.” Stiles says as Peter looks back down at his wrists, “I thought you had escaped from the zoo.”

“No. No, only Talia could do that.” Peter insists, single-minded. “She was the special one. I never—.” He takes another steadying breath and forces his mouth closed over the words.

“But what _happened_?” And Peter almost looks like he’s asking himself. His hands are clenching and unclenching in the blanket and his jaw tightens and relaxes in turns. He’s repeating himself too, either unsatisfied with the answers he’s received or just forgetting that he’s already asked.

None of them are going to tell him what happened. Even given that, strictly speaking, none of them know for sure, it’s obvious in all but the particulars that Peter was…punished by Deucalion and either was thrown out (unlikely, Chris thinks) or panicked and ran.

But they aren’t going to say that. It’s too ugly. Peter’s still too fragile in the wake of his injuries to hear how he got them.

He’s not completely unaware, though. He can tell they’re keeping something from him and the secrecy and the exclusion are making him agitated. He’s tense, still feeling that fight or flight instinct though Chris is sure that right now flight is greatly outweighing fight. Perhaps they should back off and give him some space, Chris thinks as he notes that Peter’s usually steady and precise hands are _shaking_. He’s in shock, but for a wolf there’s nothing to be done.

“Peter.” Chris says firmly, demanding his attention if not eye contact, “You’re safe here.” He lies.

Peter squints, evaluating his statement and intentions. Chris keeps still, eyes unflinching under his scrutiny. Whatever conclusion Peter comes to he shows no reaction.

Instead he ignores it, shifting, hunching further into the blanket.

“I should have been more careful.” He mumbles to himself. He sighs and brings his fisted hands up to rub his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. We can still make it work. We can still—“ He looks up at Chris, abrupt and alarmed once more and Chris braces himself for another round of heartbreaking confusion, “Five days, she said. How long has it…?”

“It’s the same day, Peter.” Chris answers though his chest is tight with guilt.

Peter nods, looking satisfied, then his face clouds and it’s still unsettling to be able to see Peter’s thought process on his face.

“There’s still time, then.” He pauses, jaw clenching and he starts to shift under the blanket, pulling himself up further and swinging his legs over a little, like he’s planning to stand up. “I should go.”

“The _hell_ you should.” Chris says taking a sudden step forward before he knows he intends to speak and everyone’s staring. And Peter, Peter _flinches_ and one hand rises a few inches, to defend himself.

Chris pauses to get his emotions under control, to stop his body from screaming ‘anger’ and violence and to instead project calm and safe.

Then he tries to justify his outburst, which was entirely normal, of course, otherwise why would he have said it? Peter’s not going anywhere. “Your leg is broken.” He points out inanely.

Peter gives him a suspicious look, although his aim is off. He sort of makes a skeptical look at something two feet to the left of Chris’ head as he’s been doing all along, not meeting anyone’s eyes, not even close. The Peter that Chris knew had an unrelenting gaze, never the first to break eye contact without a good reason.

 _Look at me._ Chris wants to demand. _We’re not going to hurt you._ _Look at me._

No one speaks.

Chris is about to try a different explanation, but Derek interrupts.

“What the hell is that?” Derek breathes, eyes wide and urgent and Chris closes his eyes. This is just what they _don’t_ need right now: another crisis, another guilt trip.

Derek takes a few mechanical steps forward to Peter’s side, as Deaton has removed himself during the conversation.

The bite mark. Chris glances at Deaton who in turn glances at him. It confirms for Chris that Deaton had known about the engagement at least before today. No doubt Deaton is thinking the same about Chris. He wonders what other secrets they have all been keeping.

Derek hadn’t known about the engagement, but he knows what the bite means.

Peter doesn’t react to the question. He doesn’t speak or move, barely even breathing, looking away again, trying not to exist.

Derek looks like he’s about to fall apart as his hand reaches out to Peter’s shoulder, but Peter tenses and shrinks away, just a little, head turning further from the room and the fingers don’t make contact.

It makes Chris think. He’s never seen anyone touch Peter before. Ever. He’s done it himself, of course, usually in violence, but no one else touches Peter and Peter doesn’t touch them. It gives Chris a twisted feeling in his gut.

Derek stares at the scar, trembling fingers still reaching out, but never touching and his words come out nearly a whisper, but still startlingly loud in the silent room, “Did he…?”

And Chris knows what he was going to ask. He knows because he hadn’t had the courage to ask the question himself. He had just selfishly allowed himself to hope. Peter knows the question too: _Did he rape you? Did you pretend to consent to protect us? Is it our fault?_

“No.” Peter replies with that flat, dead tone and Chris knows that Derek won’t get another word out of Peter on the subject.

The room is silent for a few more moments as Derek begins to realize that himself. Chris can’t help but feel a little bad for the boy, too. As the alpha, Derek no doubt feels partially responsible.

“I should never have let you go.” Derek says what they’ve all been thinking, though he leaves out the parts about how the alternative was veritably certain death for them all.

“It doesn’t matter.” Peter says again, perhaps taking comfort in the phrase. “There was no choice. Not for you or me.”

Deaton is rustling through his bags again, Chris notices in the following silence. Drawing out another hypodermic he approaches Peter, giving Derek a look to ask for permission to get to Peter.

Derek draws aside with no resistance.

“Peter,” Deaton says as he sits on the coffee table next to the wolf, “I’m going to give you another shot. Is that alright?”

Peter gives his wrists a sullen look, “I have to go.”

“Chris is right. You can’t go anywhere with that leg. I’m sure it will be alright for you to wait here.” Deaton says alluding to Deucalion’s rules, though Chris is sure Deaton doesn’t know the specific orders Peter has been given.

“I don’t want to get in trouble.” Peter says so softly that Chris almost misses it. Derek chokes on a breath and turns away from the scene. Stiles face turns to stone, like it usually does when he’s angry with himself for something. Scott looks like he’s trying to turn invisible.

“You’re not going to get in trouble.” Chris says, surprised to find he means it so adamantly. _We protect those who can’t protect themselves_. Peter Hale is anything but defenseless, but they all need protecting sometimes.

Peter gives him that suspicious squint again, like a child unsure if their parents are being sincere.

“I swear.” Chris says “I swear it on the hunter’s code.” He uses the same oath that Peter had accepted before and Peter’s eyes widen slightly. He looks over towards Deaton and down at the needle he holds. He knows the subject of discussion isn’t just him not leaving now. He knows it’s about the needle.

He looks wary still, but he nods and holds his arm out, palm up, offering his veins to the vet and, for all his hesitation before, Chris gets the feeling that he isn’t averse to being drugged unconscious again. The bruises don’t make him look any less exhausted than he usually has these past few days.

Deaton injects him and Peter takes it without a flinch. He settles back against the couch, still half-seated but curled into the corner. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the lack of clothes at all or if he has it doesn’t bother him to sleep naked on the couch of the Stilinksi house.

Chris watches him as his eyes drift lazily close and just before they finally shut, Peter looks back at him, as if to say _you promised. You promised._

There’s an audible release of tension when Peter falls back into slumber. Chris immediately looks to Deaton, who must have had some reason, other than the general awkwardness of the situation, to put Peter back under.

Deaton looks at Derek for a long moment, glances at Stiles, but then settles his gaze on Chris before making his statement.

“He has to go back to Deucalion.”

Chris crushes his rage down before he responds because he knows Deaton is right. He knows Deaton is right and it makes him livid.

Deaton must not be as sure that he knows though, or perhaps his explanation is for the benefit of Derek and Stiles, because he continues. “He’ll do it willingly to protect his family, but also because he has no other choice. Deucalion will come for him either way, darach or no darach, Hales or hunters, Deucalion will cut through anyone in his way to get to Peter. Peter knows that and he would have known it when he made the deal.”

“I know.” Chris says still trying to keep his anger contained. It’s obvious that Deucalion will kill to get what he wants and what he wants, besides the darach, is Peter. And Peter Hale is sure as hell not going to be their Helen of Troy. “Although I still don’t believe he would have gotten himself into this without a way out. He must have a plan.”

“I think he _had_ a plan.” Stiles says from the back of the room. “Maybe even a good plan, but I’m pretty sure it’s gone spectacularly wrong.”

“Have you asked him?” Deaton inquires.

Stiles shakes his head.

“I have.” Chris says, “But he won’t tell me anything.”

“He doesn’t trust us.” Stiles says, voice dark with amused irony and no small hint of bitterness. They had always distrusted him and all this time _he_ hadn’t trusted _them_.

“He trusts you.” Derek says, sounding somewhat surprised to hear their conclusion, “The fact that he came here when he was hurt, even if he was disoriented, it’s instinctual. He trusts you.”

“Not with his top secret plans, apparently.” Stiles say with a snort. “Trusting someone to call 911 for you and trusting them with your secrets aren’t exactly the same.”

Derek just shakes his head. “If Peter trusts you when he’s vulnerable, then he would trust you with his plan. There must be some other specific reason why he wouldn’t tell you.”

Chris nods. That makes sense.

“What particular part of _this_ plan would he want to keep from us?” Chris muses.

Deaton watches them think with those wise old eyes and Chris can’t help but think he has a very good idea about what that might be.

“You know we’re never going to figure it out.” Stiles says. Chris gives him an annoyed glance and Stiles throws up his hands. “Not because Peter’s so hard to figure out, just cause we don’t have all the info involved. Like, you said he and Deucalion had a history.” He turns to Derek, “What was that about? Why _didn’t_ Peter just kill Deucalion if he thought he had a chance? Why is the darach even after the alpha pack? All we have are questions, but Peter has all the answers. Of course we won’t be able to predict his plan.”

Stiles is right and Chris completely agrees on all counts, except one.

“You think Peter is easy to figure out?” He scoffs.

Stiles shrugs, “Well, in general yeah, but I’m talking post-resurrection, here. If you forget about everything before it’s obvious. _All he’s done is protect us_. Oh, he likes to be a cryptic asshole and he’s kept us in the dark because he doesn’t want us to get involved, but I know we’ve all hidden stuff, kept secrets to try to protect people.” He says quietly, looking down, obviously thinking of his father. Chris is guilty, too, of keeping the truth from his daughter for so long.

“It’s the connection with Deucalion that I don’t get.” Stiles continues, expression clearing, quickly moving from familial guilt to logic and extrapolation.

“It must have been on his roadtrip.” Derek muses quietly, moving forward to sit next to Peter again. “He left one summer. He was nineteen, I think. Didn’t tell anyone, just left a note and stole Talia’s contacts. He didn’t come back for five years, but when he did…” Derek shrugs and shakes his head. “He seemed…better, more settled, less angry all the time.” Derek shakes his head sitting up and dispelling the memories. “He must have met Deucalion then.”

“He never said anything about it then?” Chris asks. The story is almost too incredible to believe, but of course, Peter Hale never ceases to surprise him. It’s practically unheard of for a wolf to leave its pack for even a single year without going omega.

Derek shrugs in answer, “Peter wasn’t exactly the sharing type. Talia might have known. I think she met Deucalion once or twice. His territory was originally in Riverside County, but if she knew she never said anything about it, but we were just kids at the time.” He says referring to himself and Cora, “It wasn’t really our business.”

Chris frowns. Curioser and curiouser. At least they’re pooling information now.

“I don’t want to send him back to Deucalion.” Derek admits softly.

“Dude, no one’s sending him anywhere.” Stiles says with a snort, “He’s gonna go himself or he’s gonna get taken. There’s no sending involved.”

“Five days.” Chris interrupts. They’re finally sharing information, brainstorming and planning and they have Peter’s framework to build on. They may as well use it.

“Peter was planning an ambush for Deucalion in five days. That’s how long we have to wait. That’s how long Peter has to stay with Deucalion.” Chris tries to make this sound reassuring, five days isn’t forever, after all, but all he can think of is how many bones Deucalion can break in five days, how many violations of Peter’s mind he can perpetrate, how many violations of—Chris jerks his train of thought under control.

“We can’t just send him back like this.” Stiles protests.

“I don’t think we have much choice.” Chris says, trying to be understanding when he wants to scream _do you think I want to send him back at all, let alone with a broken leg and what amounts to a werewolf concussion?_

“No, I mean…” Stiles glances at Derek then back to Chris, “He’s not allowed to see pack, especially not his alpha, or you Scott. Deucalion will be able to tell you were here, right? Like, smell you or something?” Stiles gives a mildly disgusted look, “He’ll just punish Peter some more. I mean, who knows what set him off this time?”

“The darach.” Chris says, a slow realization building in the back of his mind. “Deucalion thinks Peter betrayed him to the darach.”

“Well, to be fair,” Stiles says, “he was right.”

The others watch Chris, waiting for him to get to his point. Instead Chris stands and grabs his coat.

“Don’t let him leave until I come back.” He says pointing to Peter and looking to Derek and Stiles, the two most likely to remain here with Peter.

Chris cocks his head for a moment and then says, “Disregard what I’m about to say, but if I’m not back in two hours, kill him.”

And Chris is out the door before they respond because he knows they’ll demand answers and then they’ll try to dissuade him and they probably don’t have time for that.

Besides which, he promised Peter he wouldn’t get in trouble and he always keeps his promises.


	31. In Which Chris Confronts Some Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris goes to confront some demons. Some DEMONS, get it? I hope you all like this chapter and the characterizations herein. It was both a fun and difficult chapter to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING for this chapter, for slight suicidal ideation. Details are in the end notes.

It’s dangerous, what he’s about to do, maybe even reckless, but they’re running out of options and he doesn’t feel afraid. He feels confident. Things are starting to become clearer. The players and their motives are being revealed. Slowly, inch-by-inch, he begins to see the board.

Peter has been playing them all, maneuvering and manipulating against Deucalion. He’s been playing as a pawn, slowly making his careful way across the board until finally he will reach the other side of the board and reveal his new position as the most powerful piece on the board.

Well, the chess metaphor only goes so far, but either way Peter has been playing a very careful game. With all the players accounted for and only five days to go Chris is sure they are nearing the end game.

Chris turns in to the apartment complex, alert for any sign that the alpha pack has returned from hunting the darach. There isn’t really any way to tell until he makes it into the elevator and takes the familiar ride that one extra floor to the penthouse.

The elevator slides open to reveal the door to the penthouse hanging precariously from its hinges and severely damaged by claw marks, another casualty of the mysterious Beacon Hills animal attacks. There’s blood smeared across it too. Apparently Peter had already been in wolf form when he’d left the apartment, in a hurry it seems.

There are a few drips of blood across the hallway too and Chris briefly spares a thought for wondering how Peter might have gotten out of the building. The stairwell seems a likely avenue and the door to it looks a bit dented. Hopefully he wasn’t seen.

Chris enters the apartment cautiously, stepping carefully over the door so as not to disturb the scene. He’s not going to bother to try to hide his presence, of course. This isn’t that kind of ambush and he wants Deucalion to _see_ the results, the consequences of his actions, wants him to see what he’s done to Peter.

Chris hopes the bastard isn’t smugly pleased with himself. Maybe he’s been waiting for Peter to break, but it seems unlikely. If he had wanted Peter broken he would have done this sooner. Why wait? If he had a history with Peter he must have some lingering affection or regard for him that was about more than just breaking his spirit.

At least Chris thinks so. It will be easier to restrain his anger if Deucalion holds at least some sliver of real concern for Peter, however twisted.

Chris moves through the apartment, checking the rooms for emptiness first and getting a feel for the layout, then he returns to the front hall and begins to, well, he wouldn’t call it snooping, but it isn’t strictly intelligence gathering.

He’s curious. He wants to know what sort of person Deucalion is and how Peter might have been living all this time and perhaps gain some insight into what exactly happened to Peter.

He starts at the beginning, the entranceway. There isn’t much of interest, merely a closet, but there’s a guest bedroom directly off the hall and Chris enters that.

It’s mostly empty and the bed has been made. It hasn’t been slept in for days. There’s a large duffel bag full of clothes and books: Peter’s things. But nothing much has been unpacked except for a few books.

Chris sighs and moves on to the next room, unsurprised.

The kitchen is well stocked and uninteresting to him, although he can’t help but remember what Allison had told him that Peter had said about being fed by Deucalion and he can’t help but picture it now that he can see the kitchen itself. Was it making Peter ask for food, knowing that Peter’s life was in his hands that Deucalion wanted or was it something else? Did he make Peter beg for it?

Chris clenches his jaw and moves on. There’s nothing to be learned in the kitchen. Nothing useful.

He walks on, to the living room and, apparently, adjoining dining room. Here he can see a story beginning to form. There are signs of it everywhere.

The piano catches his eye first, mostly because it’s missing any sort of bench or seat. The underside of the legs are scratched. Someone, likely Peter, had dived under the piano and been pursued by someone with claws. The missing bench is no doubt another casualty of the same incident.

Further into the dining room he can see there are two chairs missing, but there are no debris. Perhaps the altercation had led to that corner. Certainly it’s the direction Chris would have gone from under the piano. Still, whatever happened then has already been cleaned up, clearly not from today, likely not even from the day before.

Chris turns his eyes to what he’s been ignoring in the room so far: the evidence of what had happened today.

There is blood, first a few drops nearer the middle of the room. This is where the confrontation began. This is where the talking happened.

There’s an adjacent spatter of blood next to the drips, not Peter’s, where Peter had started fighting back and then the blood smears towards a door, a room Chris has not yet explored.

Then blood again, no doubt spilled as a result of the claw marks on Peter’s back. They brought Peter down here, pinned him here. Chris kneels, careful to avoid the blood, and touches the deep grooves scratched into the hardwood floor. They tell Chris everything he needs to know. This is where they held him down. This is where it happened.

But Peter was heading towards something. He was trying to escape in this direction. Chris looks up towards the master bedroom and continues forward. Some part of him is resistant. It’s not that it might be a breach of privacy or that he’ll find something that will make him angry.

He already knows that what he’s going to find will make him angry. He’s already angry about what he’ll find in that room, whatever it is, but knowing the particulars will be an advantage. Plus, they might just be of some help to Peter. If they know more about what he’s been through they might be able to help him better.

He’s sure that Peter would rather have less help and more privacy but that’s no longer an option. Chris will keep his secrets, but someone needs to know, someone needs to take responsibility.

Chris takes a breath and enters the room.

It’s bright and airy. The whole apartment is. It would be a beautiful residence if it weren’t for all the blood and the misery. This bed, unlike the guest room’s, is not made, Chris notes, but there are no bloodstains on the sheets or grooves in the headboard. Not that that means much, but it’s something. He had been steeling himself for something more overtly terrible, but what he already knows is enough. Deucalion doesn’t need to use bondage or bloodsports to control Peter. He only needs to threaten his family. It makes Chris feel sick to know that he’s been complicit in this…this inhumanity, even if it is just as an incidental hostage.

There’s some piece of the puzzle missing, though, and Chris lets his gaze wander across the room, taking note of the bathroom, the unblemished furniture (no fights in the bedroom, it seems), the balcony.

_The balcony_.

There are no exits in this room. No sanctuary. No escape.

Only the balcony of the 23rd floor.

Chris closes his eyes and breathes through his nose to stop himself from doing something very rash, but he makes a promise to himself.

When this farce is over, when Peter is free and the rest of them are safe he is going to take Deucalion apart piece by piece so that even Gerard would be proud of him.

 

It is well into the evening by the time Deucalion returns and Chris has turned on only a standing lamp in the living room.

He can tell Deucalion has arrived by the sound of the elevator and the subsequent silence. Chris imagines that Deucalion is discovering evidence of Peter’s flight and no doubt the smell of Chris’ presence. Chris isn’t sure what the limitations of Deucalion’s eyesight are, but he would bet the wolf sees better than he lets on. In any case, Chris smirks at the long pause. Deucalion is not as overconfident as he sometimes behaves, cautious when caution is called for: a worthy opponent indeed. Chris doesn’t know whether to be annoyed that this isn’t a flaw he can exploit or allow some grudging respect to seep through. He would have been very disappointed if the one who had finally been able to bring Peter Hale to his knees was no more than the cliché villain of a fairytale.

Hesitation, caution speaks of fear. Fear speaks of humanity and Chris leans back in the chair. Yes, he begins to understand his opponent and his bluff should work perfectly.

Chris hears Deucalion approach. He’s quiet by nature it seems, not putting any particular effort into stealth. The time for subterfuge is at an end. Chris smirks as the sound of Deucalion’s long stick tapping moves through the hall, closer and closer until he draws up to the doorway and Chris gets to put a face to the name of the werewolf he’s going to kill.

He’s not as intimidating a figure as Chris expected, certainly not the sort to be noticed immediately upon entry to a room.

He’s classically handsome with a square jaw and defined cheekbones. Chris can see the appeal in an objective kind of way. He’s well dressed; his clothes are stylish, but not flashy. His shoulders are broad and taper to slender hips. He’s not physically intimidating or overly muscular. He can’t be much taller than Chris himself, or Peter for that matter. He seems normal, human even.

It makes Chris _angry_.

The wolf’s head tilts, no doubt hearing the uptick in Chris’ heart rate. Chris wonders if he can smell that it isn’t fear that makes his heart race, but rage.

“Argent.” The wolf says stepping into the room. “Christopher, isn’t it?”

Chris nods first to see if the wolf reacts, though he doesn’t expect him to, and when, as Chris predicted, Deucalion makes no move he replies. “That’s right.”

“And what brings you to this wolf’s den?” Deucalion asks.

Chris tilts his head back slightly, giving Deucalion an imperious look, “I think you know,” he says slowly, “why I’m here.”

Chris watches carefully as Deucalion’s fingers clench around the handle of his stick and his shoulders tense, rising like the hackles on a dog.

“If you’ve hurt him—“ Chris doesn’t know if Deucalion was going to let the threat drop or go on to specifics, but Chris stops him there.

“If _I_ —“ Chris chokes, unable to continue for an ugly sound that may have started as a laugh but doesn’t leave his mouth that way. “If _I_ hurt him?”

He can’t go on for a moment but he sees Deucalion’s jaw tighten. The reaction is a good sign.

“Do you even _know_ what you did to him?” Chris asks. This man intends to make himself Peter’s mate and—

Deucalion looks away and Chris thinks, hopes it’s shame.

“You wouldn’t understand, hunter.”

Of that, Chris is certain.

This isn’t why he came here, though and he needs to regroup. At least now he knows that his bluff is almost certain to work.

“I understand that I have something you want.” Chris opens the negotiations.

Deucalion steps further into the room taking a seat across from Chris with slow deliberate movements. His eyes glow a dull red from behind his dark glasses.

“You should know better than to threaten a werewolf’s mate, little hunter.” He says simply, setting his stick to lean against the side of the chair. The whole maneuver is aggressive but Chris smiles. They’ve both stepped up to the negotiating table, now it’s time to play their cards and make their bets.

“I have no intention of hurting Peter, which is more than you can claim.” Chris starts the exchange on the offensive.

“It is sometimes necessary for an alpha to discipline his betas.” Deucalion replies coolly.

Chris snorts. “Don’t try to lecture me on the difference between discipline and torture. I’ve experienced both. I’m quite familiar with the difference, but I am curious.” Chris pushes now. He’ll put Deucalion on edge, unbalance him and then strike, “Is it really just punishment, or did you _enjoy_ pinning him down and hurting him? Do you _like_ making him scream?”

Finally the wolf’s control snaps.

He leaps out of the chair, letting it crash to the floor in his wake, covers the distance between them in under a second and wraps a clawed hand around Chris’ throat.

Chris doesn’t resist, doesn’t even try to dodge. He knows he would fail. This is where the bluff comes in.

Deucalion takes a moment to look Chris over before tightening his fingers around Chris’ neck and for a moment, Chris thinks about the bruises that Peter had around his neck and wonders if he’ll have the same.

“You were foolish to come here without any weapons, little hunter.” Deucalion growls into his ear.

“Not really.” Chris manages to gasp out and Deucalion loosens his hold just barely, so Chris continues, “If I don’t return within an hour or so I’ve left instructions.” Chris lets that statement hang for a beat and then hisses, “You’ll never see your precious mate again.”

Of course Chris would prefer it if Deucalion never saw Peter, or for that matter, anyone else, ever again.

Deucalion releases him, dropping him in a sudden brutal motion. He steps back, wary and seething.

Chris bites back on his urge to gloat. The bluff worked. This will work.

He does allow himself a smirk, though. He’s usually the epitome of professional when making these sorts of deals, but if this has become a little more personal, he’ll give himself a pass.

Chris takes his time adjusting his ruffled clothes then retaking his seat. Deucalion remains standing. He knows he’s given away that Peter is a weakness, that Peter can be used as leverage, so there’s no sense in pretending not to care. He paces, looking for cracks in Chris’ armor. Any signs of fear or hesitation will be exploited. Chris doesn’t mind the scrutiny, confident enough that Deucalion will take his bargain.

“Well,” Deucalion says, pacing restlessly, obviously not a man used to being in suspense, “I imagine you have terms.”

“The same terms as before with a few other stipulations.” Chris says, adjusting his collar for show, “Peter may be happy to sacrifice himself to your whims—“ but somewhere along the line he got under Chris’ skin, under the skins of Stiles and Derek. They aren’t willing to just sit by and watch him suffer anymore.

Deucalion stops, turns and gives him a narrow eyed glare.

“Let me see if I have this right. You’ve taken Peter hostage and intend to ransom him back to me for the price of his safety?”

“Roughly.” Chris admits as Deucalion’s eyes glow brighter. This is where the bluff might fall apart.

“I am to believe that you’re willing to hurt Peter yourself to keep _me_ from hurting him? You’ll have to do better than that, little hunter.” Deucalion replies as he begins to advance.

There’s the flaw in the bluff laid out clear. Chris’ heart starts to race at the prospect of a fight and he rises forcefully from his chair, meeting Deucalion’s aggression with his own.

“No, you’re right. I wouldn’t hurt him. Not the way you did. I wouldn’t torture him, fuck with his head. I wouldn’t force him—“ Chris clamps his jaw shut tight.

He hadn’t meant to reveal that: Peter’s somewhat less than willing agreement to the mating. Of all the lies, that one would be most dangerous for Deucalion to discover. Lover’s scorned, as they say.

To Chris’ brief relief Deucalion’s response is only a dark chuckle and Chris suddenly gets the feeling that he’s completely lost grip of the situation.

“Ethan was right.” The wolf barks a cruel laugh, sounding surprised and pleased, “You do want to fuck him.”

Chris freezes, then bristles, a reflexive denial to that kind of accusation on his lips, but when Deucalion’s words penetrate, when he thinks about what Deucalion has just said he realizes. And what a time for an epiphany?

He can’t deny it now. He’s hesitated too long and Deucalion will hear the lie easily.

Deucalion’s grin has widened.

“You’re jealous.” He says as he begins to walk a slow circle around Chris, the hunter becoming the hunted. “That must be very…inconvenient for a hunter.” The man laughs, cruelly delighted.

Chris grits his teeth and questions himself for just a second. Has he let this…unfortunate desire cloud his judgment? That’s not something he can afford when it comes to Peter Hale. It’s also not something he can afford with Deucalion. He can’t afford to question himself now. Not even for a second.

Of course, by the time he’s resolved not to hesitate, it’s too late. Deucalion has found a chink in his armor and he digs his claws in.

“Well, I hate to disabuse you of whatever sordid fantasies you’ve been entertaining of Peter as the damsel in distress to your white knight. I may have forced him to become my beta. I may have coerced him into doing my bidding, but if there’s one place I don’t need tricks and bribes to lure my dear Peter, it’s to my bed.”

Chris grits his teeth and tries not to wonder exactly where on this fucked up spectrum of consent (and the fact that it even makes sense to think of as a spectrum is already repulsive) the sex falls. The engagement bite, he imagines, was reluctantly agreed to, not true consent. And he knows that Peter is working against Deucalion’s purposes and disobeying his rules. Even given everything that’s happened, Chris can easily see Peter happy to take pleasure wherever it’s offered, if the price is low enough, but how much of the choice was informed by desire and how much for the sake of the machinations he had already set in motion?

Deucalion continues, unaware of Chris’ internal debates, “Do you think of what he would feel like, what he would look like on his knees for you or on his back, spread open and writhing? Do you wonder what kind of sounds he would make when you pin him down and give him what he’s been begging for until he spills untouched? Do you know what pure pleasure looks like written on his face?”

Deucalion steps around, inches away from Chris, so close their chests are nearly brushing with each harsh breath.

“Because I know.” He finishes gloating with a superior sneer in Chris’ face.

It’s only by letting Deucalion’s words wash over him and _not_ thinking about _any_ of the scenarios Deucalion had outlined that he isn’t hard in his pants right now.

Peter on his knees, Peter begging, Peter whimpering underneath him: these are not things he can think about now. Maybe…maybe later, in private, in the silent dark when he doesn’t have an alpha werewolf breathing down his neck, so close he can feel the heat of his anger pouring off the wolf and the red glow of his eyes reflecting off his cheeks.

Chris takes the conversation and flips it from shame, a weakness, to ambition, a challenge if not a strength. He has to take back control of this conversation. Right now it’s his only defense, his only weapon.

Chris smirks, “No, you’re right. Only a blind man would be unaffected by Peter’s charms or maybe I should say _even_ a blind man.” The wolf scoffs at his petty dig and Chris gives an aggressive just of the chin in response. _See? I can be cruel too._ “I don’t know what it’s like to sink into him. I don’t know what he’ll sound like when I make him scream my name, but I intend to find out.”

Deucalion growls, loud and full, and it does shake Chris. Deucalion is dangerous, instinctively, viscerally dangerous, but Chris stands his ground. For now he has his threat to Peter keeping him alive, but after they give him back to Deucalion he has no doubt he’s put himself at the top of the list of next targets.

There’s nowhere else for this topic to go so Chris changes tack again.

“He wasn’t lying you know.” He says.

Deucalion continues to growl, but softly. He’s listening.

“He was never going to help the darach. He was playing her because she was killing his family.”

“Family,” Deucalion scoffs softly to himself, “Of course.”

It surprises Chris a little every time Deucalion or Peter act so familiar towards one another. He forgets that they’ve known each other for much longer than the past few hellish weeks. It also strikes Chris as odd that Deucalion is unsurprised by Peter’s concern for his family, considering that he murdered at least one of them and has such an antagonistic relationship with the other. Chris doesn’t know what his relationship with Cora is like. Then again, what Stiles had said before is true: after his return from death he’s made no threats, nor carried out any.

“And why would I believe your word, little hunter? You have plenty of reason to want me dead.” Deucalion replies. He doesn’t sound that skeptical. He’s just being argumentative.

“Do you really think Peter would ever help a hunter target werewolves? After what happened to his family?” Chris asks.

Deucalion cocks his head. “You mean after what you _did_ to his family.” Then he sniffs, “You obviously don’t know Peter very well. If it were to protect his family of course he would help a hunter. Then he would slit his throat.”

Chris narrows his eyes. It’s an obvious threat, but he’s not sure Deucalion is right. Of course, he’s not sure Deucalion is _wrong_ either.

“I wasn’t part of what happened to the Hale family.” Chris carefully answers that accusation first, “And if I had known I would have stopped them.”

Deucalion, for the first time in their entire exchange, seems taken aback, “You sincerely believe that, don’t you?”

“Have I surprised you?” Chris asks.

“I haven’t known many hunters, but I can safely say I’ve never known one like you.” Deucalion replies, then adds flippantly, “Are you sure you weren’t adopted?”

Chris snorts letting that be his answer, “Why do you ask?”

“Argents aren’t known for their honor, only for their warmongering.”

Chris shrugs. It’s a sentiment he’s familiar with. The reputation has its advantages and, like now, its disadvantages.

“Not all of us.” He replies.

“We’ll see, I suppose.” Deucalion says, seeming more settled now that he’s taken Chris’ measure. He returns to his seat and steeples his fingers. “So you’ve come on a mission of mercy because you believe I’ve mistreated dear Peter.”

“You almost _killed_ him,” Chris growls venomously, “or worse.” Deucalion takes the bait. The only weapon Chris has against Deucalion is his own sense of shame and he intends to use it expertly and to full effect.

“Worse,” Deucalion says after a startled moment, alarm beginning to grow at Chris’ words. He had flinched at the word ‘killed’, clearly an unexpected revelation.

Chris gives a cruel triumphant grin. He is an expert with most weapons, after all, “I can’t really say.” Chris replies airily, enjoying having Deucalion in suspense. “I don’t know that much about werewolf psychology or physiology, but” Chris makes a show of shrugging, “I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d never changed back.”

“Never changed back…” It’s like Deucalion has forgotten he’s even there. He’s recalling something, some memory, but Chris can hear the anxiety clearly through the distance of his voice.

“Yes.” Chris continues, drawing things out. “Imagine the human boy’s surprise when a wolf showed up at his front door.”

Deucalion is back in the present, eyes flashing, buzzing with caged emotion, pinning Chris with a stare, “Peter isn’t powerful enough—“

“Well, he didn’t do it on purpose. You just fucked up his head enough that he couldn’t handle conscious thought anymore and decided to try out life on four legs.” Chris’ volume has been steadily increasing and he’s conscious that he’s yelling now, but in a distant uncaring way. He doesn’t stop. “You’re lucky he didn’t end up in another six year coma. He hardly remembers what happened.”

And something vicious and dark in Chris is eminently satisfied by the fear and pain and disgust he sees travel across Deucalion face before it hardens.

“I didn’t know it would affect him so badly.” Deucalion tries to excuse himself, voice haughty and uncaring, but his cheeks are pink with shame.

“You didn’t know?” Chris mimes, “You didn’t know? Well you could have taken a hint from him, because Peter knew. He knew exactly how bad it would be. How could you not _notice_? Did you think he would bluff about something like that?”

Deucalion seems stunned at the brutality of his own actions, like he’s seeing them now from a completely different angle through Chris tirade, but he’s still missing the point.

“It’s written on your floor _in his blood_.” Chris says in response to Deucalion’s horrified blank confusion, “He knew what you were going to do and look which direction he runs.”

Deucalion follows his pointing hand and the trail of smeared blood. His reactions are sluggish and jerky like he’s in shock.

“The others were at the doors.” Deucalion explains slowly, replaying the scene in his memory.

“Yes.” Chris says growing impatient with Deucalion’s obtuseness, “But _think_. Maybe there was almost no chance he could get through your alphas, but the bedroom? There’s no escape that way. This is Peter. He always has a plan. He always plays ten moves ahead. He wasn’t going to lock that flimsy door behind him and hope you wouldn’t get through. _Think_!” Chris says, taking a step towards the wolf, “You gave him no escape but one.”

Deucalion shakes his head wordlessly, either not yet understanding or in denial.

“What’s the only other way out of the bedroom, Deucalion?”

Chris spells it out for him and he sees the exact moment Deucalion realizes. He pales ghost-white in a matter of seconds and every muscle in his body draws up in horrified tension.

_That’s right._ Chris thinks in cruel satisfaction watching the brutal revelation dawn across the wolf, _he was going to jump just to get away from you_. He wants to _say_ it, to form the words into a dagger and shove it through Deucalion’s face, that he doesn’t deserve Peter.

“When I saw it I wondered,” Chris asks rhetorically in a falsely light tone as he stalks slowly towards Deucalion who is still frozen in shock. “What could you possibly do to Peter Hale, an unapologetic survivor, that would drive him to jump off a building?”

Deucalion begins to rouse from his shock and rises as Chris approaches, eyes burning bright.

“I only put it together when I saw this.” Chris gestures to the evidence on the floor, “He asked me if I heard him screaming this time, “Chris laughs, harsh and unhinged, “since I didn’t get to hear last time, _but she did_. That it would only be fair.”

They’re face-to-face now and Deucalion is growling again, a low rumbling backdrop to their confrontation, but Chris isn’t backing down.

“Where is he?” Deucalion snarls at him.

“Swear to me that you won’t torture him again. That you’ll never use his memory against him like that.”

“I swear.” Deucalion says readily, grabbing the front of Chris’ jacket and drawing him close, faces a breath away to intimidate him, but Chris isn’t afraid. “Now _where is he_?”

“He’s with Deaton.” Chris says disdainfully, putting a hand over Deucalion’s to push them off his jacket and Deucalion gives, not by virtue of Chris’ strength, but because of his leverage. “I’ll bring him back myself once he can string together a few coherent sentences.” Chris will take every opportunity to dig the knife in, to use this against Deucalion. _You hurt him. You did this._

Deucalion releases him slowly in response to the pressure Chris exerts against him, giving more slack the harder Chris pushes and there’s something heady and triumphant inside him at the wolf’s retreat under his hands.

Deucalion doesn’t move as Chris makes his exit, brazenly showing the wolf his back.

He pivots at the door, looking behind to see Deucalion standing, eyes glowing bright and angry, fists clenched, anxious and ashamed.

Chris isn’t though. He doesn’t feel one inch of shame admitting to himself that causing Deucalion pain brings him pleasure. But for what he did to Peter it’s still not enough.

And there’s one threat, one ultimatum, one last move before checkmate to seal the deal, since Deucalion’s altruism clearly cannot be counted on alone.

This time it is no bluff.

“If you break your word and make him relive the fire again I will kill him myself and it will be a kindness.” He hisses.

Then he sees himself out of the apartment and for all that he succeeded at what he came to do the ride back downstairs rings of an empty victory. The sweetness of revenge, the euphoria of hurting Deucalion in kind is gone, leaving only a ghost feeling of dissatisfaction in its place. In the end Deucalion still holds the advantage, still has the power.

He still gets Peter.

Chris’ fist goes straight through the faux wood paneling of the elevator, but he doesn’t give the damage a second thought; he’s through thinking in terms of acceptable losses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING DETAILS: In this chapter Chris discovers that Peter was trying to get to the bedroom window when fighting Deucalion and the alphas off. He surmises that Peter was trying to jump off the building. In the previous chapter where this incident is described in Peter's point of view, his actions are less suicidal and more panicked. Peter explicitly mentions his intention to live through the jump.


	32. In Which Peter Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter seeeeems to be back to his normal self. Meanwhile, I'm still struggling to finish this monstrosity! Next update Dec 13 :O

Peter wakes slowly, unnaturally so and somewhere in his sleep fogged mind he understands that he’s been drugged. This revelation doesn’t start to concern him until after he’s unconsciously determined by scent that he’s in the Stilinski home and his eyes are blinking open.

“—reckless and irresponsible. What did you think was going to happen?”

Derek. Well, that strikes him as ironic; his nephew is lecturing someone on being reckless.

He blinks a few times and Derek’s form comes into focus along with Chris Argent. Ha! That’s who Derek is lecturing. Peter’s glad he woke up when he did. He wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.

Just as Chris is about to open his mouth and start the entertainment his eyes flick over Derek’s shoulder, to Peter. Chris’ entire demeanor changes when their eyes meet, from combative to surprised, eyes widening and the fight draining out of his body. He shoulder past Derek almost blindly, completely ignoring him.

“Peter?” he asks and his voice is so careful that it’s honestly a bit alarming.

Derek whirls at Chris’ word with an equally alarming expression, a surprised, pitying, hopeful expression that makes Peter tense.

“What happened?” Peter asks because something must have happened for those two to be here together looking at him like they are.

Deaton, to Peter’s growing alarm, pops out of the kitchen making his way quickly towards the couch that Peter realizes he’s lying on.

Chris, for all his shoving past Derek, has not made it any further, nor has Derek approached. They seem, for all intents and purposes, paralyzed by the very sight of him.

He has no such affect on Deaton, however, who makes it all the way to the couch.

“How are you feeling, Peter?” Deaton asks gently, sitting across from Peter on the coffee table. He’s using his doctor voice Peter notes, cocking his head.

“Like I’ve been drugged.” He accuses archly, “I assume that was your doing.”

It’s clearly not the answer any of them were expecting because Deaton sits back in surprise and everyone glances at everyone else, sharing concerned, calculating frowns. Peter is clearly missing something. He _hates_ that.

Well, he’ll find out later. The three men are too busy looking concerned to actually do anything and it’s quite annoying to be left out of the conversation even if it’s only a silent one. Besides that, he probably needs to get back to Deucalion, so he shifts, bracing himself on his hands and pushing himself further up the couch and—

“Ow!”

Peter’s hand nearly flies up to cover his mouth. He had made that sound. He had given that pained yelp in front of Argent, Derek, Deaton and now Stiles too, who’s just entered the room. Peter can’t remember the last time he made a noise from pain unintentionally.

Chris Argent makes an aborted move towards him looking altogether too concerned for a werewolf hunter. Derek jumps and then looks guilty and Deaton puts on his poker face and remains very still.

“Try not to move.” The vet says calmly.

“Yes, I figured that out, thanks.” Peter replies sarcastically out of reflex.

It’s belatedly apparent to him that he’s still coming out from under the influence of whatever drugs he had been administered because it’s just now that he’s realizing: he’s in _pain_.

His whole body is a dull ache, like he somehow strained all his muscles simultaneously. His back is on fire in four bright stripes and his leg is like ice.

“Is my _leg broken_?” he wonders aloud, more than a little incredulous. There’s no reason he can think of for his leg to be broken and _christ_ that hurts. How had he not noticed until just now?

He looks down his body to get a better look and realizes he’s covered by an ugly old afghan that looks like the color of old mustard and immediately after realizes that’s the _only_ thing he’s covered by.

“ _Why_ am I _naked_?” Peter asks slowly, voice low and dangerous with warning.

A warning that is summarily ignored as once again everyone in the room shares a knowing glance except for Peter, who is getting very tired of being ignored, thank you very much.

“Look, not to be rude,” Peter begins though he doesn’t really care to be polite, “obviously we’re in the middle of…something, but I should really be going now, so if one of you _gentlemen_ could see your way clear of lending me some clothes, I’ll be on my way.”

He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but something in him urges him to get back to the penthouse. There is some little voice telling him that if he doesn’t get back soon there will be trouble. He doesn’t have the energy to question the instinct right now.

Deaton cocks his head curiously, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Peter narrows his eyes and reevaluates the composition of the room’s atmosphere. Guilt, mostly Derek and Stiles. Worry, the kind right before a doctor gives you the diagnosis. There is even concern, a gentler more personal emotion and not one Peter is accustomed to.

Something has happened, obviously, but more specifically, something _bad_ has happened _to him_. It fits with the injuries he doesn’t remember getting and the slow slog to consciousness. The question is _what happened_ and Peter’s starting to feel an uncomfortable amount of déjà vu.

Things must have been very touch-and-go if Deaton and Derek were called in, Peter thinks.

He remembers the darach, remembers weaving her into his web perfectly. Everything had been set, every piece expertly positioned on the board, but what had gone wrong? Something had been out of place.

He can guess what happened next, though. He would have gone home to Deucalion and if Deucalion had been displeased or found out about the darach—Peter experiences a breathless moment of pure panic, but it fades as suddenly as it came. If Deucalion had decided to kill them Peter wouldn’t be having this conversation, so he must have been punished and then…?

It all makes sense up to the point where he ends up naked in the Sheriff’s home.

He hums in response. The room seems crippled with apprehension, terrified at what he might say.

“I remember speaking with the darach. Not much after that.” He hates to admit such an exploitable weakness, especially given that his memory cuts out while he’s still in Argent’s presence, which means Argent remembers more than he does. Still, it’s to his benefit to admit the gap.

“Is it common for werewolves to black out after traumatic events?” Argent asks, though his question is directed towards Deaton and not Peter, which Peter takes as an insult just because he can.

Then Chris’ words penetrate. _Traumatic event_.

It seems a little dramatic for a broken leg and some scratches, all of which has been treated, splinted or stitched.

“Not really.” Deaton replies smoothly, reaching into his bag and Peter’s not interested in being doctored anymore. He’s interested in how fucked they might possibly be if he’s had a falling out with Deucalion.

Either way, he won’t find out here. He has to go back. He’s wasting his time here. He shouldn’t be dallying. He needs to go before Deucalion loses patience and comes looking for him.

“Right. So, clothes?” Peter prompts again, ignoring the rest of the conversation. The deal and the darach and the demon come first. Everything else can wait until after. It’s only five days.

Chris sighs as though Peter is being unreasonable and says, “Stiles, go find Peter some clothes, please.” Of course Stiles hops to obey when Chris suggests.

“How come he listens to _you_?” Peter pouts.

Chris ignores him, frowns and would it _kill_ him to take a joke? He looks towards Deaton again.

“Will he ever regain his memories?” he asks the vet and Peter rolls his eyes.

“You sound like a soap opera husband.” Peter complains. And since when has Chris Argent starting worrying about Peter’s wellbeing? Oh, that’s right, probably around the time Peter’s wellbeing began to stand between the alpha pack and his precious daughter.

“I don’t think the memories are lost forever.” Deaton replies, mostly to Chris and when this is over both the Chris and the good doctor will find out exactly how much Peter likes to be ignored. “They may return on their own with time, but likely there will need to be a trigger.”

“Well,” Peter says, “Speaking as the person who’s lost the time _and_ as someone who’s lost time before, it’s really not that much of a problem as long as someone knows what happened so maybe you could also _enlighten me_?”

“We don’t know what happened, Peter.” Chris says, finally, _finally_ addressing him directly like a civilized person, “We found you like this, more or less.”

“Where?” Peter asks firmly with narrowed eyes. There’s something Chris isn’t telling him. Getting information about this is like pulling teeth and it’s starting to be a little more than concerning. He just wants to know what happened to him!

Chris looks away, “Wait until Stiles comes back. He’s the one who found you.”

Hmph. When Stiles comes back with clothes Peter is going to _leave_. He’ll wait long enough to hear what Stiles has to say though. It might be important.

Deaton rises from Peter’s side.

“There’s nothing more I can do for you, Peter. Stay off that leg for at least another seven hours, preferably twenty four.” He says, stance square facing Peter directly, “You’re playing a dangerous game here, Peter. I’m not sure I want you to win,” Deaton pauses meaningfully, “but I would hate to see you lose.”

Peter smiles ruefully, “You and me both, doc.”

“The rest of you, be careful.” He says and then he’s out the door and it’s just Chris, Derek and him waiting for Stiles to bring him something to wear.

There’s a loud thud from upstairs and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Derek, go make sure he’s not dead.” Peter says dismissively, “And make sure he brings something that’s _actually_ wearable.”

Derek glances at Chris and Chris gives him a look that isn’t quite approval, but is understanding. Derek goes.

Peter turns his eyes back to Chris with a flippant “Not my first choice when it comes to fashion, but god knows what Stiles would choose. At least with Derek you know you’ll get something black.”

Argent takes a few steps forward and Peter tenses a little more with each step until the man sits where Deaton had been sitting, on the coffee table in front of the couch. Peter holds his breath, wary and very aware of his injuries and his nakedness: his vulnerabilities.

“I owe you an apology.” Chris says seriously catching Peter’s gaze and holding it unrelentingly.

“Sorry?” Peter sputters. This is altogether unexpected.

“I knew what was likely happen to you if you stayed with Deucalion.” Chris spits the name out with surprising vehemence for someone with no particular beef with the werewolf. Then he shakes his head, “I should never have let that happen. I’m sorry.”

Peter is taken aback. This is…entirely unexpected. The sentiment, the concern, is completely authentic and Peter doesn’t know how to respond.

“There’s nothing you could have done.” He says simply and shrugs.

“I could have tried. We all could have.” Chris says.

Peter’s brow furrows and he shakes his head, “Since when do _you_ care, Argent?” It’s not a venomous question, just curious and a little grumpy, and this time Chris is the one taken aback.

“I don’t know what everyone is so worked up about.” Peter continues. “It’s just a broken leg.”

Derek snorts on his way down the stairs. “Oh,” he says deadpan, “Is that why you’re naked?”

Peter frowns and narrows his eyes. Derek’s not wrong. A mere broken leg wouldn’t see him naked at the Stilinski residence with missing memories. Still, the concern being shown him rings a little insincere considering the people showing the concern have literally killed him in the past and look at him! He’s fine now. He’s a survivor.

Stiles follows Derek down the stairs, each of them carrying an article of clothing. Derek takes the clothes from Stiles, who plops down next to Chris on the coffee table, which is turning out to be a much more popular seating option than Peter would have ever guessed.

Derek sorts out the clothes and hands them to Peter one by one. The shirt is a plain t, grey, no doubt the sheriff’s. There’s a pair of boxer’s, Peter isn’t going to guess whose those are, and a pair of gym shorts. Peter holds them up and frowns in disgust and chagrin. Did they really think he was going to wear those? He glances at Stiles, incredulous.

Stiles shrugs, “Cause of your leg. You really wanna try to put on jeans with a broken ankle?”

Well, he _might_ prefer it to this. He frowns.

“Put them on, Peter.” Derek growls, eyes flashing red.

“Not my alpha, Derek.” Peter reminds him, still dubiously regarding the shorts.

He sighs. True, it will be easier to put these on than a pair of pants, even sweatpants, but it’s just so undignified.

“Peter.” Chris says his name in a long-suffering sigh and doesn’t need to elaborate.

“Oh, fine.” Peter gives in. He can’t just walk out of here naked and he has to get back to Deucalion.

“So, Stiles” he says as he sits up to dress himself, the ugly blanket slipping down his chest to pool at his waist, then further down to his hips when he leans forward to reach his injured leg which he’s trying his best not to move, “Tell me how you found me.”

Peter smirks as Stiles gapes at his barely concealed modesty, then spins around suddenly. And, oh, is that a blush on Chris Argent’s face? Chris’ eyes are averted and his jaw is hard, but his cheeks are positively glowing. Well, how flattering, big bad hunter embarrassed by a little near-nudity.

Derek gives a disgusted growl and shoulders past Chris. “Stop showing off.” He demands, looming over Peter and knocking his hands away from the shorts (and Peter will never admit it, but he was having some trouble getting the shorts on without jostling his broken leg). Derek impatiently grabs the shorts, gingerly lifts Peter’s calf to slide his leg through the hole and even though he’s being gentle Peter still winces.

Once Derek’s got both his legs through the holes he unabashedly shoves the shorts up to Peter’s thighs and leaves Peter to get them over his hips and ass himself.

Peter snickers at the discomfort of the humans. Stiles’ mouth is now gaping twice as wide as before and Chris’ jaw is twitching, though his eyes are still firmly fixed on the other side of the room. Peter rolls his eyes. Humans, so squeamish about nudity, even in the context of helping injured family members. They’re adorable, really.

“Well, Stiles?” he prompts again as he pulls the t-shirt over his head. He hasn’t worn clothes this horrendous since high school gym class.

“Well you came to the door, rang the doorbell and you were like scratching at it and—“

“Scratching at it?” Peter repeats skeptically.

“Oh, yeah, well you were also a wolf, so I got the door and—“

“Stop.” Peter orders and turns his gaze to Derek whose expression is two parts guilt, one part tentative hope and one part sympathy. Ugh.

“You looked just like mom, Peter.” Derek says, voice thick with memories and Peter can’t think about this right now, can’t think about Talia and the old days and all the ways that being able to take wolf form would have changed his life, would have changed the way _his_ aunt’s and uncles looked at him.

“But how—“ Peter shakes his head. The boy won’t know. “So what did I do?”

Stiles shrugs, “You just collapsed on the couch so I called Mr. Argent and then we called Deaton.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, “Any reason you called the hunter before the vet?”

“I don’t trust Deaton. He always knows more than he says. Plus Mr. Argent knows about all this stuff.” He replies gesturing to Peter, then to his own neck in a crude signifier for the mating bite.

“You _knew_?” Derek bursts out at Chris.

“I found out.” Chris corrects.

“And you?” Derek turns to Stiles who shrugs in answer, “And you just didn’t want to tell me?”

Peter is about to tell Derek that it’s the furthest thing from his business, but Stiles beats him to it.

“Peter asked us not to tell anyone.” Stiles replies, although as Peter recalls his word choice on the matter he thinks ‘asked’ may be a bit of a stretch. “It’s his choice.”

Derek is still visibly fuming.

“It’s not like he showed it to us and explained everything. He was trying to hide it from us too.” Stiles continues and normally Peter would be quite annoyed at having someone speak for him as though he isn’t there, but it’s kind of nice, kind of novel, to have his actions defended.

Derek takes a visible moment to calm himself.

“This is insane. You’re in way over your head. We’re leaving. We’ll pick Cora up and just go.”

Peter snorts, “In any other situation I’d applaud you for finally thinking and coming to a reasonable solution, but it won’t work. There’s nowhere he won’t be able to find me and he will kill you if you try to keep us apart.” Peter bounces his uninjured foot restlessly. He’s surprised Deucalion hasn’t burst through the door by now. “Take Cora and go somewhere safe, the two of you, but I have to stay.”

“We’re not going to just leave you here.” Derek growls, outraged.

“Really, Derek?” Peter cuts in, “That didn’t seem to bother you before.”

So maybe he’s a little bitter that his surviving family members left him in a coma to rot and fucked off to New York. Maybe it pisses him off that he doesn’t know how many days, weeks, months faster he would have healed if his pack had been around him, helping him heal, taking some small piece of his pain if they had even cared. And maybe, just maybe, past the crushing guilt that he tries not to think about, he thinks that if they had stayed, if they had been there with him, he never would have sent out that call for revenge, would never have ended up with the blood of family on his hands. He knows it’s just his mind trying to rationalize things. He can’t very well blame Laura for her own murder, but sometimes he wonders if things would have been different.

Derek bristles, with good reason, at Peter’s jibe, but Peter cuts him off.

“No, forget it. That was unfair.” Everything is unfair. “None of us chose then and we aren’t choosing now.” Peter gives Derek a slanted smile, “No one gets to choose. You should go. Someone might as well make an intelligent decision and it’s too late for me.”

Chris is staring at him with a hard determination in his eyes that makes Peter slightly nervous.

“In any case.” Peter continues, getting back on topic, “I have, oh, I’ll call it unfinished business, with Deucalion. I should be getting back.”

Argent cocks his head. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt you again?”

Peter shrugs after thinking about it for a moment. He should probably feel afraid or hesitant, considering what’s been done to him in the past, but instead, “Not much I can do about it either way until this is over. The only thing I _can_ do is mitigate.” He shrugs again. “Pain is just pain.”

Chris seems to accept that answer, no doubt having been taught similar mantras in preparation for becoming a hunter. Derek and Stiles look grim and slightly horrified, respectively. Well, they’re young still.

“I’ll drive you.” Chris volunteers.

Derek looks like he wants to protest but doesn’t have any arguments left.

“That would be much appreciated.” Peter says primly, “Pain may be pain, but I’d still rather avoid it and considering how long I’ve been here I’m probably pushing my luck.” He prepares to stand.

“You have time, Peter.” Chris says, trying to sound casual about it.

“Oh?” Peter intones meaningfully. “You seem awfully confident of that.”

“I am.” Chris replies, either enjoying keeping Peter in suspense or unwilling to elaborate for some other reason.

Derek, of course, can’t take suspense of any kind and prefers to unsubtly blurt out the answers to unspoken questions.

“He went to talk with Deuaclion. Alone. Without any backup. Without telling us where he was going.”

Peter looks at Chris in a new light, scanning him up and down, but he does seem to be in one piece.

No wonder Peter had woken to Derek scolding Chris for his recklessness.

“I’m surprised you’re alive.” Peter says frankly “How did you manage that?”

“I did the same thing you’ve been doing.” Chris says, looking smug about finally being one giving the cryptic and unhelpful answers.

Peter snorts and says, “I highly doubt that.” Under his breath. The idea of a nude Chris Argent reclining against an equally naked Deucalion in the bathtub is utterly ridiculous.

And the mighty hunter has the wherewithal to blush, since he knows that nature of Peter’s relationship with Deucalion.

“I meant I used his affection for you as a pressure point.” Chris replies quickly, even his ears tinged red.

Peter raises an eyebrow, not letting the topic go until Chris sighs.

“I told him they would kill you if I didn’t return within an hour.” Chris admits in reluctant exasperation.

“Interesting.” The good news is that now he knows demonstrably that Deucalion still wants him alive. Though he hadn’t been harboring too many doubts on that count, it’s still nice to have the confirmation. The bad news is that Argent has just painted a _very_ large target onto himself.

“And how do you plan to keep him from dismembering you and drowning you in your own blood once he has me safely back in the highest room in the tallest tower?”

Chris quirks his head and says, “I think we came to an understanding.”

Peter snorts and leaves it alone with an, “I hope you did.”

“I’m sending Allison to stay with Lydia for the time being.” Chris also mentions, voice tense with concern, so he _is_ taking the possible threat seriously. Good. Still, there’s no need for him to worry unduly. Peter knows what it’s like to worry for your family, for the pups you have a part in protecting.

“He won’t hurt her.” Peter says and he’s sure of it, but he’ll make a point of mentioning it to his alpha. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Chris watches him, careful and grim, and then says, “I would appreciate that.”

Peter nods and looks away from the intense eye contact.

“Sooo.” Stiles draws out the syllable, “What actually is our plan right now?”

All eyes turn to Peter.

“Let Deucalion and the darach have it out. Kill the survivor.” Peter shrugs, “As far as plans go it’s no heist. More like a mugging.”

“That’s bullshit, Peter.” Chris says bluntly, but without venom and maybe even with a hint of amusement. “We all know it’s going to be a little more complicated than that and don’t insult our intelligence by pretending otherwise.”

Peter frowns, trying to decide whether to dodge, admit to, or deny the statement, but Chris continues before he can choose.

“It’s fine, Peter.” He says seeming somewhat amused by Peter’s hesitance. “We all know you have something planned. I gave you my warning already.” Chris refers to his warning against Peter becoming an alpha again. “We understand if you need to keep some things secret and I think you’ve shown that you don’t intend to cause us harm. Other than that,” Chris shrugs, “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Peter’s thoughts come to a halt. What? Is this really Chris Argent? Is this Chris Argent telling Peter Hale that he _trusts_ him?

There’s no reasonable response Peter can give and his mouth is suddenly very dry. He casts his gaze helplessly to the others, trying to understand.

Derek looks about as stunned as Peter feels, but Stiles, while initially his mouth had been gaping open in surprise, it is now pressed in a grim line and he is nodding in approval.

Peter’s not sure what to do. He can’t remember ever being told to his face something like…even Talia had never said as much. The sentiment is…crushing. It’s everything he’s never been willing to admit that he wants, that he’s been striving for: to regain Derek’s trust, to gain the trust of the pack.

It feels like too much, too important, so he shuts it down before it can rise up in his throat and choke him. It feels undeserved. He hasn’t done anything to deserve this. All he’s done is provide a tiny stopgap that _might_ keep them all alive. It’s nothing, less than nothing.

He nods and coughs looking away and hoping to avoid a blush.

“Right. Well, I still should be getting back…”

Chris nods decisively, not pushing him to stay this time, which Peter appreciates. He starts appreciating it slightly less when Chris stars giving orders.

“Alright. Derek, carry him out to my car. I’ll drive him back.”

Derek nods, looking reluctant, then determined.

Peter sputters and protests, “I can walk by myself. Now wait just a…” Derek’s approach doesn’t falter.

“Don’t you dare.” Peter warns as he tries to scramble backwards off the couch, but Derek just scoops him up and hefts him into his arms in a bridal carry.

“I am going to—“ Peter stutters in outrage, “You—“

“Shut up, Peter.” Derek says sounding utterly unconvinced by Peter’s half-finished threats.

“You don’t happen to have any crutches do you?” Peter hears Chris ask Stiles, but the boy responds with a negative as the two of them follow Derek to Chris’ SUV.

Chris opens the passenger side door once they reach the car and Derek gently, if slightly awkwardly, deposits Peter in the vehicle.

He stays for a few moments, standing there outside the car no doubt wondering where his life took it’s wrong turn (the fire, always the fire).

“Stay safe.” He finally says. It’s all there is left between them now, the only sentiment without suspicion of ulterior motive.

Peter gives a half smile, “I do try.” Derek nods and steps away and Chris enters the driver’s side and once again they’re alone in a vehicle.

They are quiet for a few minutes. Peter tries not to think about their destination and what might have happened to him only a few hours ago. Chris breaks the silence first.

“You seem different.” He says. It seems like a very vague non sequitur.

“Well I was just running around on four legs. Maybe that’s the difference you’re picking up on.” He jokes offering Chris a chance to elaborate his question.

Chris shoots him a look for deliberately misinterpreting the question.

“I mean different from…earlier this year.”

“You mean after the coma and before my death.” Peter bluntly interprets.

“Yes.” Chris admits, “And Deaton said—“

“Don’t tell me what Deaton said.” Peter cuts him off, “Use your own instincts. What do _you_ think?”

“You were feral then. You risked exposure numerous times. You killed your niece and nearly killed Derek a few times.” Chris analyzes from his knowledge of the situation given that he had had little interaction with Peter at the time. He can still tell though.

“You’re different.” Chris pauses, “Do you _feel_ different?”

“No.” Peter replies, voice flat and face blank.

And it’s true. He doesn’t feel different.

“Looking back, thinking about what I did, I don’t understand it. My thought processes, my justifications, my reasoning, none of it makes sense. Everything was all twisted around. I was running on animal instinct, but fueled by human motivations. At the time, in the moment, I remember that it made perfect sense to me. The leaps of logic I made seemed as obvious and natural as any decision I make now. Crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy. I’ve gotten used to doubting my sanity.” Peter shrugs.

Chris suppresses a shudder. Peter is completely nonchalant about the whole idea. Now that Peter’s gotten started he isn’t stopping.

“I can’t tell anymore. I was crazy then, I think, but what if I’m crazy now? How would I know?” Peter shakes his head and gazes out the window, “Sometimes I wonder if I ever woke up.”

It’s obvious he’s talking about the coma.

“I wonder if maybe I’m still sleeping or maybe I really did die and this is my hell.” He smiles wryly and puts on a cracked façade of a smile. “It doesn’t matter either way, really.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Chris repeats, trying to keep hold of his emotions. They still have a job to do. He can’t just take Peter somewhere, lock him up and keep him safe. They need him in the field.

“Hard solipsism isn’t really a sustainable philosophy.” Peter replies, rightly assuming that Chris doesn’t know what solipsism is, in order to deflect the conversation.

Chris opens his mouth to—but there’s nothing he can say. Chris has no advice for the moment, only to survive, but after, after all this (and Chris is going to make sure they make it through alive) he’ll figure out something to do for Peter to make things seem real, to make life less like something he thinks might be hell.

Peter seems completely oblivious to Chris’ resolve and horror, already moving to a new topic of conversation.

“How did my alpha seem when you spoke to him?” he asks, turning serious and subdued.

Chris grimaces inwardly, not wanting to give Peter the truth, “He seemed…very concerned. He was…worried about you.” Chris shakes his head. “He didn’t seem to understand how badly he hurt you, but he was horrified when I finally spelled it out for him. He won’t do it again.” Chris says firmly as he pulls into the lot for the apartments. He parks but doesn’t unlock the doors yet.

Peter’s face is stone when Chris turns, a fierce internal debate raging within. It’s obvious to Chris that being with Deucalion holds some appeal for Peter. Whether it’s nostalgia, genuine affection or the lust for power that draws Peter, Chris doesn’t know. He does know, at least he wants to believe he knows, that Peter will protect the pack at all costs. Chris also knows that it’s very hard to live the kind of double life Peter is living right now. It’s hard not to get lost in the pretending, especially when there is a history, as there so obviously is.

Whatever pull Deucalion has on Peter, they have to make sure Peter remains strong enough to resist in the end. It wouldn’t be his fault, not really, if he got so worn down that he simply couldn’t resist anymore. Chris has seen it happen to others. It’s not betrayal that turns coats; it’s exhaustion.

The games, the split-second judgments, the careful control, the manipulation, these are all things Peter needs to keep their plan alive, to keep himself alive when he’s with Deucalion, so maybe, hopefully being completely blunt and honest, open and exposed will help Peter remember which side of the conflict he’s really on. With Deucalion he has to pretend. With the pack, with Chris, he doesn’t have to. That’s what will keep him grounded.

And besides that, all their lives are on the line here, in Peter’s hands. He’s not going to risk sending Peter into the wolf den without every possible advantage, even if it’s embarrassing to Chris personally, so he steals himself and tries to think of the most tactful way to bring this up.

There isn’t one, but he still tries.

“Peter…don’t read into this, I’m only telling you because I want to be honest with you. Deucalion knows and he might try to use it against you. I don’t want you to be taken by surprise.”

Peter is listening with trepidation unmasked on his face.

Chris grimaces. This is the hard part. “I’m…attracted to you. Deucalion knows and I’m sorry I let him find out. I just wanted to warn you in case…” Chris steals a glance at Peter to gauge his reaction, expecting the usual impenetrable mask. Instead Peter is staring at him completely slack-jawed in surprise.

It takes Chris aback for a moment. Peter is usually so sharp, so painfully aware of these things.

“You had no idea, did you?” Chris says as Peter shakes his head less to answer Chris’ query and more in disbelief. To be fair, Chris hadn’t known himself until Deucalion called him out and it was his own attraction, but Peter always notices. Probably he was too busy manipulating Deucalion to bother noticing the hunter’s odd fixation with the wolf.

“Well, anyway,” Chris says, clearing his throat, “I just wanted to warn you in case it came up.”

Peter still seems to be in shock.

“Right.” Chris says awkwardly, “I’ll just help you up to the elevator.” And he gets out of the car.

By the time he gets around to the passenger side Peter has sufficiently recovered his completely shocked expression and managed to wrangle it down to simply a confused furrow of the brow.

Chris frowns at the state of him. It’s awkward and conspicuous enough helping someone limp around, but Peter’s livid bruises and the scratches on his arms are plainly visible and would attract the attention of many a bystander.

“Here,” Chris says, shrugging out of his jacket. “Put this on. Don’t want anyone calling the police.”

Peter hesitates, frowning, but he obeys after a moment looking mildly disturbed and introspective.

Chris curses himself silently. He shouldn’t have brought it up. This was a mistake. Peter seems wary of him now. Damn it, he curses again. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid.

Peter begins to move, swinging his legs around and pushing himself up, putting pressure only on the good leg. Chris quickly moves to help stepping up to Peter’s bad side and looping an arm around his waist.

Peter is a warm, solid weight against his side and Chris does his very best not to enjoy being pressed up against the man, not to match and categorize the feel of Peter’s muscles through his shirt to the sight of Peter almost naked.

It’s awkward at first, but they soon get the hang of their odd three-legged parade.

Chris sighs as they hobble into the dreaded apartment. He’s going to have to move after this; too many bad memories.

It’s a shame. It really is a nice building.


	33. In Which Peter Returns Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GOOD GOD! I almost forgot to update!!! :O Shortish update. Next months is longer though! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: Probably something that resembles a panic attack at the beginning.

There is a part of Peter that wishes he had just stayed a wolf. He could have had a very nice life in a zoo or even in the wild out on the Preserve.

It would certainly be easier than this.

He honestly hadn’t thought it would be this hard walking back into Deucalion’s open arms, back into his cage, but it is. Even despite Chris’ assurance that Deucalion won’t do _it_ again, whatever _it_ is, and he still can’t decide whether he wants to know or not, still can’t remember completely what happened. Words won’t protect him when an alpha’s claws are on his throat.

And Chris is…Peter sneaks a glance at him from the corner of the elevator.

He sighs quietly. Chris is a problem. This new protective streak, confronting Deucalion, helping Peter with his injuries, asking Deaton about his health, it won’t serve them well. At first glance Peter had thought the concern was because protecting Peter is the same as protecting the pack. He can’t keep Deucalion at bay if he’s unconscious or going crazy, but with this startling confession Peter sees his actions with a new light.

It’s a distraction at best, at worst it could bring Peter’s house of cards crashing down, killing them all in the process. Except for Peter, of course, no his fate in that case would be a permanent binding to the mad, possessed Deucalion. Peter honestly isn’t sure if death would be preferable. If only Deucalion weren’t possessed. Ah, well, he’s in the process of taking care of that as well.

Peter drags himself from his musings and back to the present as they approach Chris’ floor, breathing in the scent of Chris’ surprisingly comfortable jacket, until he notices: the number for Chris’ floor isn’t lit up.

Peter lunges awkwardly for the panel, intent on pressing the button before they pass it and go straight to the penthouse. It can’t have been an oversight, Argent would be more used to pressing the button for his own floor.

“What are you doing?” Chris yelps, obviously startled by his sudden and clumsy movement. Some part of Peter thinks ‘Oh, the mighty hunter has let down his guard around me.’

“You’re not coming with me to the penthouse.” Peter says firmly.

“Yes, I am.” Chris replies, just as firm.

“He’ll kill you.” Peter replies mildly.

“But he wouldn’t kill me if I’m just downstairs?” Chris counters. His logic is sound, from a hunter’s perspective, but to a wolf it is foolishness.

“I honestly don’t know how you survived the first time, even if you did threaten me.” Peter snaps as the elevator doors slide open on Chris’ floor. Chris stubbornly stays inside, waiting for them to close so Peter has to slap a hand over the doorway to keep them open.

“Get out.” Peter says, near to growling. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I don’t see why he’s more likely to kill me if I deliver you safely as my hostage than if I just let you off here.”

Ah, that explains it. Standard hostage etiquette for hunters apparently involves a face-to-face exchange, as to the other question.

“That’s because you’re ignorant. You have no idea what the implications of your actions are to wolves. For example giving me your jacket is a sign of intention. It’s a form of scent marking. It means nothing to you, of course, but Deucalion wouldn’t see it that way. He knows that you’re…attracted to me so he’ll treat you like a rival. If you come with me now he’ll be obligated to prove to me that he’s stronger than you and reassert his dominance, by which I mean kill you, strew your intestines about like tinsel and then fuck me next to your oozing corpse. So, no, you are not coming with me.”

Chris looks a little stricken by Peter’s outburst, but at the physical threat his face hardens, as it always does. Then his brow furrows slightly.

“Why did you take the jacket if you knew it would cause so much trouble?”

“You weren’t wrong about suspicious bystanders. He knows I’ve been with you and I already smelled enough like you and the others that it won’t matter.” Peter begins to shrug out of the thing and finds himself immediately missing it’s warmth, “You should take this now, though.”

Argent takes the jacket, folding it gently into a bundle instead of putting it on, still hesitating to leave.

Peter sighs, “If not for anything else, Argent, do it for my pride.”

Argent’s expression is more pained than pitying, but the mix resolves into determination.

“Fine.” Chris says, with obvious effort. “Fine. I trust you on this, Peter.” Chris steps off the elevator holding the door himself momentarily. He hesitates, then steps back into the way of the door.

“At least take this.” He offers, looking desperate for some way to offer Peter protection and Peter understands. Even though he calls himself a hunter, a title that more means murderer to a wolf, for Chris Argent in particular it is closer to meaning protector. Being unable to protect must be a very uncomfortable feeling for the man.

Chris pushes his sleeve up and fiddles with something, a buckle. He draws free a small knife, sheathed in a wrist strap, obviously meant for concealment. Chris offers him the knife.

Peter looks at him with humorous incredulity.

“I have claws, you know.” he says.

“Humor me.” Chris says, “You’d be surprised when a good knife can come in handy.”

Peter hesitates another moment. He doesn’t want to lead Chris on, doesn’t want to seem like he’s returning affection, but he so desperately needs someone besides his insane alpha to care whether he lives or dies.

“Please. Just—“ Chris is frustrated by his impotence in this situation. He knows the knife is an empty gesture. It won’t save Peter from anything, but he has to try. Peter knows the feeling. “Just take it.”

Peter nods and reaches for the knife. Their fingers brush and their eyes meet and Peter knows he is in trouble. He can see the same determination, the same focus in Chris’ eyes now, that same look that his alpha gives him.

Peter jerks back, the intensity too surprising, and the moment is broken.

“Take care of yourself, Peter.” Chris says, looking intently, like he is willing Peter to read something in his eyes, like he wants to say more, but Peter is glad he doesn’t.

“You as well, Argent.” Peter replies feeling suddenly very vulnerable in his borrowed t-shirt and shorts on his broken leg wishing a farewell to a human hunter who had almost unknowingly challenged Peter’s alpha for his mate bond.

He hides the knife in a loose wall panel of the elevator. Like the jacket, it would be unwise to flaunt a gift, especially so violent a gift, from someone his alpha will interpret as a rival. He’ll still have access to it here and their frequent use of the elevator will mask its scent.

Well, Peter muses as the doors slid closed, no one can say it hasn’t been an interesting few days.

 

It’s only one floor, maybe 12 feet of displacement but it feels like forever and the only thing keeping Peter from a full-blown panic attack is pretending that none of this happened and it’s yesterday. It’s easy not to think about something you can’t remember.

He can smell his alpha and it’s comforting (alpha means pack, pack means safety) except when he tries to put weight on his injured leg and then he is reminded to be terrified.

He tries to convince himself he took a fall or something. It doesn’t have to be believable, it just has to get him to the apartment. Once he’s in his alpha will keep him there.

And then the elevator doors are sliding open and Peter’s throat closes around a half-whimper and the scent of his alpha is all around him, strong and heady and powerful.

Deucalion, his alpha, is there, standing in the doorway to the apartment suddenly only feet away and a blank sort of terror rises flooding through Peter. There are no thoughts, only the unfamiliar instincts of a prey animal.

Peter stumbles out of the elevator and falls to his knees in the hall. He is forgetting to breathe in his panic, the hallway is tilting out from under him. His alpha makes a noise, quiet and choked off, but Peter still flinches at the sound. His alpha approaches, slowly, cautiously, making soft hushing noises but Peter still can’t help but whimper and cringe at every step until his alpha stands above him and he shrinks away as the wolf goes to his knees reaching out for him speaking words low and calm.

Peter moves as the hand moves, straining and twisting away until he meets the wall and there’s nowhere to go.

He ends up on his back, belly exposed to his alpha, head thrown back to show his neck, eyes clenched closed and he knows if he had a tail it would be tucked between his legs. Even so, his hips curl forward in an effort to protect his belly.

Warm hands meet his skin and he flinches, but the hands remain steady, gentle and firm. One at his cheek moves towards his shoulder and then under and across his body. The other at his thigh moving down to his knees and Peter squirms, under the influence of conflicting emotions: resist or cling.

His alpha is here paying attention to him, gently soothing him, gathering him close and nuzzling into his jaw and throat, scenting him and it’s comforting but Peter’s instincts are on fire with _fear_ and _run_ and _get out_.

Distantly he knows it’s just an echo of a sense memory, being here again, seeing his alpha again, the faint scent of his own blood, it is triggering the wrong response, a response that is no longer applicable.

A slightly less distant part of him doesn’t worry about his inconvenient reaction. He won’t run away again. He won’t be able to now that Deucalion is here. Knowing that, he has the luxury of panicking as much as he cares to. He doesn’t need control right now. Let his alpha deal with the fall out.

Peter lets himself be carried, burying his face in his alpha’s chest, trying to calm himself down a little. It works enough that Peter becomes conscious of what his alpha is saying.

“—orry, Peter. You’re all right now. You’re safe. I’m going to take care of you. You’re all right. You’re going to be all right.”

Comfort. He’s being comforted. His alpha is comforting him.

Even the irony of the comforter being the very on who perpetrated the injury does not outweigh the rare nature of the interaction.

No one comforts him. No one holds him. No one tells him everything is going to be ok.

No one but his alpha. And if ever there were something that could be called his weakness, this would be it.

All energy, all fear, all tension deserts him at once and he sags in his alphas strong unwavering arms.

He is so lost, so lost to his alpha’s whims and desires, like a good beta, but he’s not supposed to be this. He’s supposed to be just pretending. He’s supposed to be fighting for Derek and his pups and the ragged scrap of connections that is the Hale pack now.

Even so, even if he’s lost he can feel a glimmer of hope. With the darach set up for their trap all he has to do is…everything else. But one thing has worked. One piece at least is in place.

He can focus on his alpha now.

He opens his mouth to speak instinctively, now that he has made his decisions, and the words fall out of his mouth with no pretense.

It is the strength and weakness of his game with his alpha, there is so little he has to pretend.

“I’m sorry, alpha. I wasn’t going to betray you. I never would. I’m loyal. I’m your loyal beta. I would never betray you. Please.” Peter babbles before he knows what is going to come out of his mouth, before he even realizes he’s speaking.

“Hush, Peter.” His alpha says, pressing his lips to Peter’s temple, “I know you wouldn’t but the others didn’t.”

They have made it to the master bedroom now. Peter had closed his eyes with a shiver at the sight of the living room to keep the memories at bay.

His alpha sets him down gently on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of him so their faces are nearly at equal height. He takes Peter’s face in his hands.

“You mustn’t disobey me, Peter.” He says, a sincere frown etched on his face, “It’s for your own good and the good of the pack. You’ll only end up getting yourself hurt, or” he pauses, “getting me hurt.”

Peter startles at that. It’s exactly what he doesn’t want, but exactly what he has to do.

“You don’t want to get hurt, do you, Peter?” he asks.

Peter shakes his head.

“And you don’t want me to get hurt, do you?”

“No, alpha!” Peter protests, offended at some level that his own alpha would think that he wanted harm to come to him.

He knows what it’s like to have your alpha hurt or dying. He knows how it feels to hurt or kill your alpha. It’s not an experience he intends to repeat.

“No.” he repeats quietly. “I’m sorry, alpha, I’ll be obedient.” And he intends to. He will follow every rule, obey every whim of his alpha and simply work on convincing him that they must trick the darach as he had already planned. No more sass or testing limits. He knows where the limits are now. He can’t—He can’t afford to disobey anymore.

It will be easy now that they’ve had another unsuccessful hunt. He’s not going to bring it up yet though. Not now. Not when his alpha is crawling up onto the bed with him, pushing him prone with the presence of his whole body with Peter flinching away at every touch. Not when he is pressing his face into Peter’s offered neck, grounding himself in the act of reclaiming his beta and mate. Peter tries to stay still for his alpha and he succeeds, just barely, in resisting the urge to try to squirm away from what feels like warmth and safety but also _danger_. As it is, he fists his hands in the sheets to keep himself in control.

His alpha heaves a deep quiet sigh into Peter’s throat.

“We lost Ennis tonight.” He says simply, retreating to kneel between Peter’s legs and suddenly Peter can breathe again.

“She’s grown even more powerful.”

Peter keeps his face mostly even, though he is very surprised. Ennis is a powerful alpha. The darach’s sacrifices must be working. It’s not good news, but it won’t affect Peter’s plan.

Instead he tentatively puts a hand on his alpha’s thigh in comfort and gives a soft whine. He does not care that Ennis is dead and he isn’t sure whether his alpha held any particular affection for the other wolf. He waits, tense, to see if his gesture is taken poorly.

“You were right after all.” His alpha says, deep voice filling the quiet room. He smiles at Peter, “You often are. You will tell me about your plan tomorrow. Now it is late and you should rest and heal.”

His alpha strokes his face gently and Peter suppresses a flinch. After a few moments his eyelids drift half shut and he realizes: he’s exhausted.

“Come, Peter. We’ll shower quickly and then sleep.” His alpha says pulling him upright. Peter hesitates at the thought of being naked and vulnerable with his alpha, but there will be no refusing. He must smell like pack and Argent probably and maybe the Sheriff if the borrowed clothes are his. He must be in quite a state. Peter gives his broken leg a brief considering look. Deaton had said to stay off it…

“I’ll hold you up.” His alpha says, drawing him to his feet and scooping him up once again in his arms.

It’s only a few steps to the bathroom, but Peter still blushes. His alpha hums into his neck in good-natured amusement.

The shower is quick, as promised, and Peter spends most of it leaning back against his alpha. Turning his back, exposing his nape to his alpha is much harder than before. He is tense, shoulder muscles bunched up and quivering, breathing fast and shallow. He can’t help but let out a small whimper of fear and flinch when his alpha washes his hair and his hands stray to the back of his neck.

His alpha makes no comments, only attentively helps Peter climb into bed and then spoons up behind him, breath hot and even on the back of his neck, warm and wet over the scabs from his own claws.

It takes Peter a long time to fall into an exhausted but restless sleep.

He dreams of being the wolf.


	34. In Which Peter Switches Allegiance III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Peter's back in Deucalion's good graces (sort of) he can go back to enacting his plan. With Stiles' help he makes his third, and maybe most dangerous, alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER******: 1) There is a biiiit of non-con here, just a kiss and not a sexual one. Scroll to the end notes for a more in-depth explanation.
> 
> 2) ALSO, instruction for euthanasia/assisted suicide, once again, scroll to the bottom notes for explanation.

Peter wakes alone in a startled flinch unable to remember his dream.

He stands cautiously, testing the limits of his leg. It’s been at least twelve hours. It still hurts a little, but in a deep ache, rather than anything acute. It’s the kind of pain he can endure or ignore and he’s certainly not going to risk his alpha’s displeasure because he’s a little uncomfortable. He’ll heal eventually either way. Of course, it’s preferable to heal quickly and completely, but Peter doesn’t have that luxury right now.

Besides, the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed tea is beckoning him to the kitchen, so he quickly locates a pair of sleep pants and gingerly slips them on.

His alpha is almost finished cooking it seems and a place has already been set at the table.

His alpha half turns, busy flipping an egg at the stove and says, “Good morning, Peter. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, alpha.” He says demurely. He’s ravenous, he realizes, not only from the lack of food yesterday, but the healing takes energy.

Peter eyes the place on the floor next to his alpha’s seat with displeasure, trying to decide on the least painful way to kneel or maybe whether his alpha will let him sit on the floor instead and if that would even be more comfortable.

After a brief glance at his alpha, he decides to just kneel as usual. He can handle the pain.

He manages to get to his knees, albeit slowly, and the position isn’t as painful as he feared, as long as he leans heavily on his uninjured leg. Hopefully breakfast won’t last very long.

He sees a slight frown appear on the alpha’s face out of the corner of his eye. It is a small enough frown that it only inspires a little spark of fear and also the slightest bit of smugness. So the obedience that his alpha so adamantly demanded isn’t as pleasant in reality as it is in fantasy. A classic case of having vs. wanting.

Still, he squashes the petty triumphant feeling. He has to tread carefully. Pride won’t serve him.

It’s only a few minutes before his alpha is finished cooking and seats himself next to Peter who has spent the time in an almost meditative state, eyes closed, concentrating on not feeling the pain in his leg, not feeling anything and maybe dozing off a few times.

“Open up, Peter.” His alpha’s order flows through his sleepy mind and he obeys without conscious thought, jaw dropping open gently and tongue poking out the slightest bit.

He hums in surprise and pleasure as a flavorful piece of bacon is placed on his tongue, hot and greasy and delicious. Eyes still closed, he chews and swallows. It’s exactly what he needed and he melts against his alpha’s leg, head resting on his thigh.

So breakfast passes in a languid but tasty blur for Peter, though he keeps mildly aware of his alpha’s pleasure. In fact, it ends before he realizes, when his alpha says, “Alright Peter, time to tell me this plan of yours.” As he rises from his chair.

Peter blinks up at him and realizes that his alpha means for him to get up and he pushes to one knee without thought, forgetting about his injury. He makes it halfway to one leg before the pain kicks in and his leg gives out from under him.

His alpha catches him neatly around the waist and pulls him to his feet taking most of his weight. Peter grabs hold of his alpha and doesn’t let go, burying his face in his alphas neck and fisting his hands in his shirt.

It really hurts and he bites back a sound. He probably shouldn’t have willfully ignored the pain this whole time. His calf muscles are twitching in protest and his whole leg is cramping up, not to mention he can practically feel his bone groaning under the pressure.

“What is it, Peter?” His alpha asks urgently.

“Leg.” Peter grits out. The pain will pass in a moment, he’s sure. There’s no need to bother his alpha with this sort of trivial matter. It was his own fault. He should have known better and listened to his body.

His alpha’s hand presses against his lower back purposefully, and the pain begins to recede. Peter tenses further at the show of compassion, but as the pain fades his muscles relax and he ends up drooping against his alpha who readily takes his full weight.

His alpha bends and takes Peter in his arms once again, carrying him to the living room.

“Peter,” he scolds mildly, “You must tell me when you’re injured and how bad it is. It doesn’t please me to see you in pain.”

“I’m sorry, alpha.” Peter mumbles into his shoulder “I didn’t think it was that bad.” as they make their way to the living room couch. Peter still isn’t quite comfortable in this room, but at least the blood is gone now. His alpha must have cleaned it before he woke.

“It’s alright, Peter.” he replies, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple before settling them onto the couch with Peter still cradled on his lap.

Peter glances at the floor, slightly uncomfortable not to be kneeling. It feels like breaking the rules and breaking the rules…He takes a shuddering breath. He’s not breaking the rules. It’s obvious that his alpha wants him here. He isn’t going to get in trouble.

“Now, tell me your plan.” His alpha insists, stroking down Peter’s chest and belly. It’s a little hard to concentrate on his plan to defeat the darach with all the affection.

“We’ll meet at the Nemeton in, mmm, four days now.” Peter says. “It will have to be just you and me, with the others standing by, otherwise the double-cross will be obvious. Once we’re in position there’s magic I can do to keep her trapped in that area, sort of like mountain ash, but it will allow us to pass through at will. I have to research a few other things to weaken her, but she won’t be able to run, at least.”

His alpha is frowning and Peter tenses, hoping he hasn’t displeased him. He _has_ to agree to this plan. He _has_ to.

“I don’t like having you in danger.” His alpha says looking down at him, gaze intent, “Once you cast the spell you are to leave and go somewhere safe, do you understand? You are not to engage the darach.”

“Yes, alpha.” Peter says, shrinking under the scrutiny, but he shakes the fear off, “There are some preparations I’ll need to make for the spells, since I can’t cast them in the moment. I was…I…” Peter nearly chokes over the request, but he has to convince Deucalion who has gone back to gently stroking him. “It would be difficult to prepare alone.” He finally manages to force out.

His alpha hums considering, “You want the help of your old pack.”

Peter cringes and scrambles to appease his alpha, “Only the human boy. He has the spark for it.”

His alpha nods. “I will allow it.” He says stroking his fingers through Peter’s hair. “But not today.”

Peter nods, in helpless relief at his alpha’s agreement.

“First and foremost I want you to rest and heal. No more kneeling until you are completely well again. You’re not to do anything that will endanger your health, understand?”

It seems like a conundrum when being punished for disobedience could potentially hurt him far worse than obeying an order would, but Peter nods his understanding anyway.

Peter closes his eyes and leans against his alpha. Only four more days and it will all be over. Just an impossible battle, a triple-cross, a demon to deal with, a poisoning, and an alpha to please in the meantime and then he’ll be free.

 

It’s two days before his alpha is satisfied that he’s healed enough. Luckily he's been able to contact Stiles before that via phone, so the boy is prepared when he shows up.

They only have two more days and they have to succeed. Besides, Peter isn't sure how long this will take. It could be an hour. It could be ten hours and there are still other preparations to make.

They meet at the loft with his alpha's permission, although Derek himself is excluded. It's just him, Stiles and the numerous ingredients he had Stiles pick up from Deaton the day before.

"So," Stiles greets Peter enthusiastically as he slides the large door open, "We're gonna do some mojo?"

Peter grins, "Yes, we are and it's a very elegant piece of work, too."

"Right." Stiles says. "Now, before we start, does this involve any blood or fire or I dunno, sacrificing?"

 _Possibly just me_ , Peter thinks, but he replies with a simple, "No, nothing like that. It's sort of a reverse summoning, so it's more rune work than anything else. How's your handwriting?"

"Erratic." Stiles replies.

Peter grunts his assent. "Better do it myself, then." and he gets to work sorting through the supplies Stiles has brought, making sure the have everything they'll need. Then he pulls out the chalk and begins to work drawing out the circles and symbols he'll need.

Stiles hovers for a minute before he can't stand the mystery, "So, what am I supposed to be doing?"

"Nothing yet." Peter replies. He’s _trying_ to concentrate. If he draws the wrong rune he could end easily end up dead or worse.

"Was I just an errand boy?" Stiles says and Peter can tell he's going to start pouting any minute now and then he’ll _never_ shut up, so he gives up on the runes for now and moves to working on the herbs they'll burn.

"You are here to be my shield."

“Your what?” Stiles asks, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights.

“My shield.” Peter reiterates as he sorts through the herbs. “It’s usually a ceremonial role that can be dispensed with, but not for this particular casting.”

“Ok. What does it mean? What does a shield do? Cause I’m not that able to defend people, you know, especially werewolves.” Stiles says, gesturing to his not-so-skinny-anymore teenage body.

“It’s metaphorical.” Peter explains. He looks away and gives a huff of annoyance, “I don’t know why Deaton won’t just tell you these things. I mean, really.”

He sighs and puts his lecture tone on, “The role of the shield is to protect the caster. It started many centuries ago when a well-placed spell could turn the tide of a battle. Of course, knowing this, magic users became the biggest target in entire armies. Even when placed in the rear or middle of an army, they were being slaughtered. The magic users required time, a fixed location and some ability to concentrate, very difficult things to find in battle.”

Stiles is listening raptly, mouth slightly agape.

“In response armies would hide their magic users in the nearby terrain. It was actually much more effective than putting them in the army. Their magic was much more reliable and they were able to hide themselves fairly effectively with spells. Until…?”

Peter lets the word hang, hoping that Stiles will be able to guess. The boy taps around his mouth, finding a pen to chew on.

“Well, if they were using magic to hide, then they’d need magic to find them?” Peter nods encouragingly, leading the boy towards more, “So wizards starting hunting wizards. There were like…offence wizards and defense wizards.”

Peter gives him a half nod. Close enough.

“Yes. Basically. So, to counter that each magic user would have a warrior hidden with them, to protect them. Of course one sword against any magic user who came hunting was unlikely to succeed, so their partners would forge for them, with inscribed runes and powerful magic—“

“A shield.” Stiles says reverently, completely caught up in the story.

Peter nods with a grin. It’s always fun to introduce the young and starry eyed to the old stories. They really are exciting. He should lend Stiles some of the old books, not the really dark ones, but the ones with the old legends.

“But I’m not a warrior. I mean, my dad taught me some stuff, but most of it’s crotch shots and eye jabs, you know. I’m not sure that would work against a werewolf. Well, I mean maybe it would work, but not for long, you know?”

“Relax.” Peter replies. “I don’t expect any armies to come by. Besides, that’s just the history of the role. It’s changed a lot over time. All I need you to do is stick around.”

“You just want me to sit around.” Stiles reiterates, deadpan.

“In this case, the shield is more of an anchor.” Peter explains.

Stiles gives him a horrified look. “Not like…a Scott-Allison kind of anchor.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “Oh for god’s sakes, no, no. Nothing like that. In fact, it’s not really recommended for a werewolf’s anchor to be another person, since people break up and move away and die and things like that.” Easier said, than done, of course. Peter waves an arm, “No, this is more like Ariadne and the thread that leads Theseus out of the labyrinth. You are Ariadne. The connection I will make between us is the thread and I,” Peter says leaning back, “will be going into the labyrinth.”

“So really, all I have to do is sit there?” Stiles asks skeptically, “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Peter says, thinking it over for a moment. “I mean, if you leave a prescribed area I’ll basically die, but for you: no risk.” He says flippantly. “There can be some mental bleed, but my shields are pretty tight. You shouldn’t get more than the stray emotion.”

"Wow, that sounds..." Stiles pauses with a perturbed look on his face, "disturbing." is the word he finally settles on.

"So, what's this labyrinth you're going into?" Stiles asks.

"Astral plane." Peter says simply as he bundles select herbs together and wraps them up with jute twine.

"No way." Stiles replies, not in awe, mostly in disbelief.

Peter allows himself to give Stiles a weary, "Yes way."

"Astral projection? Really? What for?" Stiles asks.

"So many questions." Peter mumbles to himself. If anyone figures out what he's up to it will be Stiles, simply because he asks so many damn questions. Peter decides to go with the vague truth.

"There's...something I need to consult with. I can't speak with it in this world. It's...full self only exists on the other side."

"Wow, that's really...intense and vague." Stiles replies, still looking a bit perplexed.

"The rest is...complicated." Peter says. It's not that complicated really. In fact, he could probably explain everything right now. He imagines himself saying, 'Actually, my alpha is possessed and that's why he's so evil. I'm going to talk to the entity that's taken over him in an effort to trick it into killing itself.'

Yeah, simple. That's one word for it.

"Anyway," Peter continues, "All you really need to know is that I'm going to be in the middle of that circle. I'm going to be in a trance, basically. I may seem..." Peter looks at the ceiling and makes a face, a few things can happen, "I may seem dead or I might get very cold and be covered in frost." He shrugs, "Different things can happen. The important thing is you don't go into the circle. Do you understand? You do not enter the circle for any reason. Not only will it put you in danger, but it could break my link with you. If that happens I'll get stuck on the other side and that is a fate worse than death.

Stiles is looks at him like he's popped out of a video game and he admits it must seem strange, even knowing werewolves exist, it's a bit jarring to learn about real magic and this is a very deep magic. Still, Peter can't afford to ease the boy into the idea of astral projection. He needs him functioning.

"Stiles." he says darkly, with a hint of a growl as he strides towards the boy, "What are you not under any circumstances to do?"

The boy shakes himself out of his stupor, "Don't go into the circle, I get it. What do I do if something goes wrong?"

"Just wait." Peter says. "If I return, the circle will disappear. If I die, the circle will disappear. If I can't get back I'll sever the link and the circle will disappear."

"What if nothing happens for days?" Stiles presses. "The meeting with the darach is only two days from now.

Peter sighs. "If I'm in the circle for more than," he gives himself a wide room for error, "40 hours call Argent and have him shoot me in the head."

Stiles physically startles, but recovers, "You have _got_ to be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Peter says, going back to chalking in the runes. "My alpha will most likely show up before than." Peter shrugs. "I don't know what he'll do." If Chris kills him in front of his alpha, if his alpha walks into the circle, if, if, if. "Look, it doesn't matter. It's not likely that anything will go that spectacularly wrong. It's just...hard to gauge time on the other side."

"Have you _been_ before?" Stiles asks him incredulously.

"Yes, a few times." Peter replies, "Under much more pleasant circumstances, I might add, and with casters of a lot more experience. The first two times I went with someone else as a guide. The third time I was accompanied by a familiar."

"Wow." Stiles stutters, "Wow, that's...so magic really does exist?"

"Oh yes," Peter replies. "I feel like you should have gotten that impression before now."

Stiles shrugs, "I can be slow on the uptake sometimes."

Peter snorts. "Right. Anyway, it's not much at all like Harry Potter. It's much more pagan-style earth magic. That kind of thing. Besides which, not everyone can do it. You and I have the spark for it, but I'm limited again because I'm a werewolf. There are some things you will be able to cast that I never could because of that."

"What about Deaton?" Stiles asks. Peter does love the boy for his curiousity.

"Deaton does not have the spark, but as a druid he's studied things that allow him to use certain powers. Don't worry about it for now." Peter says, finishing up the last rune and getting to his feet.

"Now, light these bundles, one on each plate. _Don’t_ move the plates. Once they're well lit put these over the top." Peter says handing Stiles a stack of what look like bowls, though there's a hole in the center of the bottom.

"The holes let the smoke out." Peter explains, anticipating Stiles' question.

"Like tiny chimneys." Stiles adds gleefully and Peter wonders if his life is entirely safe in the hands of this boy.

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?" Stiles asks abruptly.

"What?" Peter asks.

"Well, you said I couldn't go far."

Peter sighs. "I meant more like 30 yards. You can go anywhere in the apartment. Even the balcony if you like, though you'd better not fall off." He says with a slight smirk.

"Ha. Ha." Stiles replies, sticking his tongue out.

"Alright." Peter says, trying to mentally prepare himself. "Everything is set. Are you ready?"

"I think so." Stiles replies dubiously, which isn't really comforting.

"Any last questions?" Peter asks.

"No." Stiles says.

"Good." He's not sure that's good. "Now, this gets tied around your wrist." Peter says pulling a strip of cloth from his pocket. It's white linen, well, it was white, now it's the brown rust color of old blood.

Stiles eyes the cloth warily, no doubt remembering Peter's assurance that there was no blood involved in the ritual. "That's not blood is it?"

It's blood.

"No." Peter says and begins to tie it around Stiles' left wrist.

"It is blood, isn't it?"

"No." Peter replies again, with a smirk and Stiles frowns at him fiercely.

"I hate you." Stiles says with no force behind the words. "You are the worst."

"And you are my favorite." Peter coos, "Now there's one more step to making the link between us. Tell me, Stiles" Peter says taking a step closer to the young man even though they are still quite close from Peter tying the band around Stiles' wrist, "Are you a good kisser?"

"What?" Stiles asks and Peter snakes an arm around Stiles' shoulder and presses a firm kiss to his mouth. It happens so fast Stiles' doesn't even have time to react before it's over.

Peter steps back slightly perturbed that the boy is taller than him.

"Dude." Stiles says wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Dude. That was not cool."

Peter shrugs. "Only way."

Stiles shoots him a dirty look. "Well, now that we've established that this ritual does in fact involve blood, fire _and_ exchange of bodily fluids, are we finally ready?"

"Please,” Peter scoffs, “I didn’t even use tongue, and yes, in fact, we are." Peter says, stepping into the circle. It's inert until the herbs start burning, but he can still feel the prickle of power as the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He wonders if Stiles can feel it too.

Peter sits, cross-legged in the center, facing West the direction of the underworld.

"Alright. Once the herbs have been lit you can relax, read a book or something." Peter says, settling in. God, he hopes this works.

Stiles has been busily lighting, then covering, the herbs. He works his way around to the last one, the one directly facing Peter and before he lights it, he looks Peter directly in the eyes.

"Good luck. And come back, you hear me? If I have to pull you back all by myself, I will. You come back."

Peter nods, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He hears the mechanism of the lighter, the flint striking the metal, the whoosh and crackle of the herbs igniting and then a deep cold strikes him and a moment of nothingness, in which he does not know his name or who he is or what he is, but then he becomes aware of a flicker, a spark and it's coming from inside himself and with that thought, with the spark to measure against, he finds all the pieces that are made of him and he can suddenly see the boundaries between his existence and the great nothingness surrounding him.

Open your eyes, the spark urges him. Open your eyes.

He opens them and the world is changed.

At first there is a strange double-vision effect. He can still see the physical world, his world, warm and welcoming, in a strange ghostlike way superimposed over the reality his spirit currently occupies. He can see himself, his human body superimposed over the wolf that he is now, the shape that his being takes in this non-physical world. There is also the bright string tied around his left wrist, blue as his eyes and then fading to a warm gold as it travels along until it disappears at the point where it travels into the other world. Peter nods to himself, all seems to be in order.

He begins to suppress the image of Beacon Hills, the physical, and brings his concentration to focus on Beacon Hills, the astral.

It has always, always, been a forest to him, like the preserve, extending into forever, but deeper and darker and more primordial than the woods of home. It makes him feel small, but real.

Of course it's just a perception, a trick of the mind. There are no trees here. Nothing exists here, nothing physical anyway. Even in the astral plane itself, Peter's consciousness the consciousness of any physical being, cannot appreciate the full scope of existence without the physical, so it fills in the blanks.

Peter turns towards the east, towards the apartment. His alpha is at the apartment, he knows, he can feel their pack bond like another physical rope, leading him towards his goal. He begins to walk.

It’s a long walk before anything changes. At least it seems long, but time is different here.

When the forest begins to change into a swamp he knows he is near. Only a very powerful entity can enforce it’s own imagery onto another beings consciousness. The swamp is not of Peter’s making. It is the will of the demon pushing into his mind.

It’s long minutes of travel through the swamp before Peter feels its presence and he shudders and inches his way through the swamp, chilled. This demon is _powerful_. The hair of Peter’s nape rise and his hackles are up. The swamp is so quiet, so deathly quiet. It must know he’s here already. God, he wants to turn back. This is far beyond what he’s prepared to deal with. There’s not a single witch he’s ever trained with who wouldn’t curse him for a fool for coming here, for trying to deal with any demon, but to try to manipulate a demon of this power? It’s madness. It’s absolute insanity.

It’s for pack.

Peter pushes on and comes to a clearing which he approaches cautiously.

“L i t t l e w o l f” Peter hears the call and the voice comes from everywhere. He shudders.

“L i t t l e w o l f.” The taunting call follows him, twisting and turning around him like a living thing. He closes his eyes tight and resists whirling around to try to find the source of the sound.

“Has the little wolf gotten lost?” the voice is solidifying and Peter opens his eyes. It is…like nothing Peter has ever seen. It’s shape is a wolf, just like him, one moment then the next moment it is a lion and the next moment a zebra and then a harpy and then just a mass of dead flesh or primordial ooze, like a rotting jellyfish and Peter clamps his eyes shut again before he can be sick. At least there’s no smell that he can detect on the astral plane.

“I’m not lost.” He manages to choke out word by word, calming now that he doesn’t have to watch the monstrosity _be_ so many different things. It’s disorienting, hard to concentrate. “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

The thing laughs, “Open your eyes, little wolf.”

Peter doesn’t dare disobey. The thing has settled in one form, for now. The face is an eagle or some other bird of prey, its body is like a scorpion or a centipede with many segments but it doesn’t seem to be encased in a hard exoskeleton. It is soft and wriggling and exposed and it is wrapped entirely around the clearing, through the trailing swamp trees, between and around, completely entrapping Peter. It makes him want to _run_.

The thing comes closer and Peter shrinks away a little. He can show fear here. It won’t go amiss and it is certainly appropriate.

The bird face stops inches away and tilts almost completely upside down as it studies him.

“You are the little plaything of my current host.” The bird smiles, somehow and laughs. “You have been playing games with him, little wolf, just like I have.”

“I…” it is hard to speak in the presence of the thing. Its power is _suffocating_. “I’ve come to make a deal.”

The thing laughs loud and harsh and flexes and the entire swamp, the whole of the plane flexes around it like water displaced by the thrashing of a whale. Peter falls to his knees in near-paralysis. God, how could he have even hoped to treat with this thing. He can’t even stand up and face it.

“Little wolf, lost in the otherworld. Wants to make a deal with little old me.”

It’s close now he can feel it. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He whimpers and curls deeper in on himself.

“O p e n y o u r   _e y e s_ , l i t t l e w o l f.” And there is so much power in those words that Peter obeys immediately, eyes flying open against his will. It continues once it has his attention, “What could a warm, squishy little mortal thing like you possibly offer me?”

“I—I—“ Peter chokes eyes clenching closed again. The thing is right. What could he possibly offer it? This was a mistake. What is he doing here? He should go home. He has to _get out_. There is a sharp tug against his safety line, the bond between him and Stiles and his eyes flash open.

“None of that, little wolf.” The thing says, voice deep and dark. Its face is still bird like, but the first several sections of its torso are humanoid and the limbs are human arms and _it is holding his lifeline_ , twining it idly between its clawed fingers, looking at him intently. “Now tell me why you came here. I saw you looking at me, you know, through your fairy glass. You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?”

Peter tries to breath slower. He needs to calm down and somehow the sight of his bond line so obviously in peril brings him to reality.

“The darach, the witch that’s after you.” Peter chokes out.

“I am aware.” The thing says, sounding a little annoyed. It must be somewhat perturbed that a mortal witch has become so threatening.

“She’s dangerous. She could kill you.” Peter continues, encouraged, slightly, by the things continued interest.

“I hope you’re not threatening me, little wolf, it wouldn’t be wise.” The thing says smoothly, completely unconcerned.

“No, no.” Peter reassures it. “No, I’m—I want to replace him as your host.”

The thing hisses, suddenly curling around him, brushing against him, face mere inches away.

“ _You_ would offer yourself as a host.” The thing laughs again, and Peter can feel the shiver of its laughter through his bones. “Why would I want you, little wolf? You are not strong. You aren’t powerful among your kind. You are only a shapeshifter and not even a true shapeshifter.”

“But I can become powerful if I kill your current host and I have the spark.” That is the real draw. The spark is so rare in a werewolf. “Through me you can do magic that you could never do through him.”

The thing cocks its bird-like head again. It is considering his proposition. It’s a good deal, a very good deal. It won’t find another opportunity like this. Peter closes his eyes and makes himself small, trying not to touch the jiggling flesh that curls around his body like a snake. He is all too aware that it could easily tighten and constrict him.

“And what do you get out of it?” the thing asks him. “Not so many mortals volunteer to be vessels. There were more, in the old days, but so very few now.” The thing sounds almost, wistful.

“He’s trapped me. I don’t want to be his beta. I don’t want to be his mate. I want to be free.”

The thing laughs again and it’s just as disturbing and skin-crawling and Peter’s nausea rises up again.

“You are not asking for freedom. You must know that already, clever little wolf? You will not be free. You will only have a new master.” The thing replies rippling its coils around him and it’s right. The demon would be in control.

“I don’t care about being in control.” Peter says. “I want to be free from pain. I want to be able to not care. I’m so _tired_ of _trying_. I just want to rest. You can have my body and control and power in the physical world, as long as you protect us.”

The thing retreats and looks away almost sad and pensive for a moment. “Mortals are so strange. You live such short lives, but you carry such sadness with you. It is unique to you. Wolves feel pain. They love and grieve, but they are still wolves. They do not become their emotions. Humans are all emotion.”

The thing turns back to him, a strange grin slicing through the beak. “The bargain is amenable, but how will you execute it?”

“I won’t.” Peter says, “You know that I can’t perform an exorcism myself, but we both know someone who can.”

The thing pauses for a moment to digest the meaning of his statement and then it laughs. “You are a bold and clever thing.” It wraps around him sprouting soft fur and snuggling up to him. “I will enjoy wearing you. Your mind will be very entertaining to inhabit.”

Peter shivers in its grip. It is much less intimidating when it wants to be. The palpable power in the atmosphere has diminished and the things form is much more friendly to a mortal, but Peter is still very aware that this is for his benefit. It is seducing him now, but if it is angered he still won’t stand a chance. He must not let his guard down.

“The darach will perform the exorcism itself, but I can make sure that I am the vessel chosen.” Peter explains.

“Hmmmm.” The things purrs. “If you fail, the witch will kill you. I will make sure of that.”

“I won’t fail.” Peter says, voice hardening. It isn’t an option for him anymore than it’s an option for the demon, just not for the reason the demon thinks.

“Very well, little wolf,” the thing says, “we have a deal, but what of your lover? Will you really kill him for his power?”

“He isn’t my lover. He is my alpha and my jailer. I will kill him for his power.” Peter says. It’s a lie, but a demon cannot see truth from untruth.

“And if the witch kills him first? How will you get your power then?” the thing questions him.

“The darach and I have come to an understanding. I give her my alpha so she can exorcise you. She gives me his life, so that I can become alpha.”

“And I suppose you’ve told your alpha that you will help him defeat her.” The thing laughs long and hard, thrashing in mirth and twisting the plane around its own existence. “A double cross. You are a clever thing!”

It sounds delighted.

“I have always loved wearing werewolves.” The thing admits, “They are so much more durable than the usual flimsy human bodies and there are so few downsides for me. Most of the other supernatural things aren’t even worth considering. An alpha werewolf who has the spark, now that is a worthwhile catch.”

The thing twists around him again.

“Your alpha is a fool. I’m not surprised you want to be free of him. It was so easy to slither into his mind once I had the proper foothold. He was so terribly angry when they slaughtered his pack. He doesn’t even know I’m in here but all it takes is a nudge. He has no idea, the poor thing.”

The thing cuddles around him again laughing, a suffocating presence, it is trying to be comforting and comfortable. It is warm now, warm and it smells like a wolf, like something familiar, like home.

Peter can’t help but melt into its embrace. He knows that it hasn’t changed. That he is still in the grips of something horrific and terrible and so very powerful, but he can’t help it. It _is_ so comforting.

“Go home, little wolf.” It whispers into his ear, and it is everywhere around him. It is the whole of the plane. It encompasses existence. “Soon, I will set you free.”

And then it is completely gone, just laughter fading slowly away. He is back in his forest, wide-eyed and trembling. He _wants_ to relax but he can’t. He wants to throw up, but he can’t. He has no actual stomach here.

He allows himself one sob, just one broken noise, buried in his two hands and he claws down one side of his face, trying to convince himself that he is real, that he did survive.

Then he gets up and starts to move. Even though he cannot see it, it could still be here. It is powerful enough to simply camouflage itself as Peter’s mind. The woods seem like his, they look and smell like his woods, the woods his mind always conjures when he comes to the astral plane, but the demon could be lurking, like a chameleon, existing only within the background.

He will not be safe until he is back in the real world.

 _You will never be safe._ Peter hears a voice in the back of his mind that he thinks is his own, but he’s been having trouble telling. He wasn’t lying when he told Argent that he worries for his own sanity, that he always has.

It seems to take longer to get back to the apartment, back to his physical body, but maybe he’s just moving slower on the way back.

He sinks to the ground once he reaches the apartment, focusing on the physical and bringing it into focus. He wraps his connection with Stiles around his hand and pulls himself through, sinking back into his own body with a sigh of relief as his consciousness leaves the other plane and returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) For the sake of the spell they are casting Peter has to kiss Stiles, which he does without warning or consent. It isn't sexualised and Stiles is not really upset by it. They joke about it later.
> 
> 2) The spell involves Peter traveling to the Astral plane where he could very easily get lost and never be able to return to his physical body. His body, which remains in the real world, would essentially be dead or in a vegetative state. He requests that if the case occurs that his mind does not return to his body within a reasonable amount of time, that they terminate him.


	35. In Which the Trap Is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter returns from the astral plane and returns to Deucalion's apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also includes some panic-like reactions and some physical illness (ie. vomiting) in addition to the usual warnings. WE'RE GETTING THERE FOLKS! THE END IS NIGH. and by nigh I mean like...seven more chapters or so???

Peter startles upright with a gasp as he settles back into his physical body. He sees Stiles through blurred vision, kneeling next to the couch he thinks, but it only lasts for a second.

Every thought, every emotion, every reaction he has felt comes rushing through him all at once, the terror, the tension, the disgust, the _nausea_.

He makes it to the bathroom, barely, and vomits into the toilet until he is only dry heaving. He is aware of Stiles stumbling in after him, but he doesn’t have the energy to worry about it right now.

Finally the spasms subside and he slumps against the side of Derek’s bathtub.

He looks up and Stiles is offering him a glass of water. Peter takes it grateful, spitting out the first few mouthfuls and swallowing the rest gingerly.

“How did you know?” Peter asks, meaning the glass of water.

Stiles looks awful, pale and trembling. He looks like Peter feels.

“Did a bit of that myself, earlier. I hope it was worth it.” He says sliding down to slump next to Peter, looking every inch exhausted. “We are _never_ doing that again.”

The boy is in terrible shape. There is a sheen of old sweat across his brow. His hair is sticking up everywhere, like it’s been run through several times haphazardly. He smells like pain and fear.

Peter’s mental shields must not have been as good as he thought. The demon…he hadn’t expected it to be that powerful. He hadn’t known what to expect.

“How bad was it?” Peter croaks, throat raw.

“Like having a panic attack for two hours straight.”

Peter takes a breath and exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you get what we needed?” Stiles asks, voice hardening.

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

“Is it going to save our lives?” Stiles asks.

Not our lives, Peter thinks, but one life in particular, a life that Stiles would never include in his “ours”.

“Yes.” He answers instead. Deucalion is still part of Peter’s “ours” as it turns out.

“Then don’t apologize.” Stiles concludes lightly. “It was worse for you anyway, right? I thought you were dead, you know?”

“Why?” Peter asks wearily. The casting was a success. The circle hadn’t been broken. Stiles should have known he was alive from that.

“You disappeared.” Stiles says. “Like vanished.”

Peter’s brow furrows. He doesn’t know what that implies and he doesn’t think he cares right now.

“Remember when you were talking about what it’ll look like, that you might look frozen or stop breathing or whatever? Well, you just kind of faded. You were see-through, like a ghost. It was pretty subtle mostly, but then you started fading more and more and you just…vanished for a while.”

Stiles is watching Peter intently. Peter makes no response, has nothing to say.

“What _happened_ in there?” Stiles finally asks his real question.

“It’s hard to explain.” He’s survived an encounter with a creature immeasurably more powerful than himself. He’s survived and managed to make a deal with it, a deal that is intended to lead it into a trap. A deal that is going to save his alpha’s life, destroy the demon, leave the darach vulnerable and the rest of them safe and _free_. Every piece is in place now. All the players accounted for.

He’s done it. _He’s done it._

It’s startles a laugh out of him and he realizes that he had never thought this was going to work. Stiles jumps next to him at his laugh.

“Dude!” he exclaims, but Peter keeps laughing.

There is something bubbling up through him, an emotion he hasn’t felt in far too long. It is joy but more than joy. It’s _hope_.

He’s suddenly overcome. They are both ill and exhausted and emotionally raw and they’re sprawled on the floor of a bathroom, but they could actually do this. They’re all going to live.

Peter finds himself grinning at Stiles like he hasn’t grinned since before his family died. His face is pure joy and Stiles looks so surprised that he can’t help but grin wider. He surges forward and catches Stiles up in a hug.

Stiles tenses for a moment, then relaxes, then slings his arms around Peter with equal force, actually rocking him back for a moment.

Peter’s grin softens as he feels Stiles shake against him. He’s shaking himself but that’s just shock.

Peter pulls back after a long moment.

“Are you alright?” Peter asks, with real concern. He should have paid more attention to their link and kept his shields up. “I’m sorry. I should have prepared you better.”

“I told you not to apologize, Peter. And are _you_ all right?”

“I’m fine.” Peter answers quickly. He’s fine and he really doesn’t want to talk about his sojourn to the other side. He doesn’t even want to think about it. And he really is fine. He’s exhausted and punch drunk, but they’re all actually going to survive this. He can’t keep up the energy for long, but he’s going to ride this high all the way to his bed where he’s going to sleep for a solid twenty hours.

He slumps back against the tub.

“How long has it been?” he asks idly.

“About ten hours.”

Peter scrambles up. “ _Ten_ hours?” He makes a distressed noise before he remembers that he doesn’t have a curfew tonight. He had told his alpha that this would take an unknown and perhaps lengthy amount of time. He’s allowed to be here. He’s not going to get in trouble.

Relief sweeps through Peter making him weak and he has to get a death grip on the sink to keep his swaying from turning into fainting.

Stiles jumps up after him, “Peter! What is it? What is it?”

“Nothing.” Peter says breathlessly, “Nothing, it’s alright. I have time. I had forgotten—“

He sighs and gives Stiles a weak smile, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you _look_ fine.” Stiles says sarcastically.

Peter snorts. “Don’t be a baby or I’ll never kiss you again.”

“Oh GOD,” Stiles yells, throwing his hands up in the air, “I was trying to block that out of my memory. DON’T bring it up again!”

“You can always get Scott to remove your memory of it.” Peter says as the two begin to make their way out of the bathroom and head for the couch.

"I'm just going to...rest here for a while." Peter says. "Although we should probably let Derek have his loft back soon."

He sighs and they both collapse onto the couch. There's only one more step.

"I have one more task for you."

"Oh god." Stiles moans dramatically into a cushion.

"Don't worry." Peter chuckles wearily. "It won't be anything like this. More of an errand really. I need you to bring this to Deaton." Peter slips a small folded up piece of paper out of his pocket. "He'll know what to do and he'll have something for you to bring me in return."

"And in two days, during the final showdown? What's our plan for that?"

Peter hums, annoyed, "The plan is you all stay out of it and I'll take care of things."

"You're joking, right." Stiles says flatly.

Peter turns his head so Stiles can't see his expression. They still don't trust him.

"There's no way we're gonna just let you put yourself in the middle of a fight like that with no backup." Stiles continues.

Peter hums a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. He wants them away from the battle. In case things go wrong, and they very easily could.

"Just get that to Deaton." Peter says, closing off. He rises and grabs his jacket. He's still tired. He's still exhausted, but even so he feels restless. He doesn't want to stay here anymore. "Text me with updates. I have to go."

"Peter." The boy catches his arm. "You don't have to--You can--" But there's nothing he can say besides. "It's almost over."

Peter turns away and gives nod. Yes, it’s almost over. He's almost back to being useless, being lonely, having pack shun him because they hate him and not because it's their lives on the line.

Peter closes the door to the loft, not looking back. He would be surprised by his train of thought if he weren't too exhausted to feel anything at all.

Has he been enjoying this? Has he been enjoying being the hero? Being appreciated? He shakes his head. Being needed, at least. Being needed.

Peter sighs into the chill air of the night and his breath frosts over. Still, Stiles is right. Two days. It's almost over.

 

Peter steps into the apartment with little trepidation. He's managed to suppress his fear quite handily.

His alpha is at the hall within moments of his entering.

Peter smiles softly in greeting and ducks his head, but he waits for his alpha to speak.

"Welcome home, Peter." his alpha says with a slightly pinched smile.

Peter nods. "I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I hope you weren't worried."

Deucalion smiles, softer this time, "I always worry when we're apart." He puts a hand on Peter's arm, just under his elbow, drawing Peter closer. Peter goes willingly, curling into his alpha's side and closing his eyes.

"Peter?" his alpha asks.

"I'm just tired. It worked, though." Peter mumbles into his chest.

His alpha nods against the crown of Peter's head and curls his arm firmly around Peter's torso.

"Come, let me take care of you." his alpha offers and Peter happily agrees.

Tomorrow Stiles will bring Peter Deaton's potion. He'll have his alpha paint the runes into his skin and then they'll be ready. Tonight is the calm before the storm.

Peter stumbles as his alpha leads him to the bath and guides him to sit on the toilet lid as he begins to fill the tub with hot water and the room with steam. Peter allows himself a silent smile. From one bathroom to another.

He could have taken a shower at Derek's, to wash off the scent of Stiles, but he prefers this.

His alpha steps up next to him as they wait for the bath to fill and for all his exhaustion Peter is very much looking forward to a hot soak. His alpha will keep his head above water, otherwise he's sure he'd fall asleep and drown.

Fingers card through his hair, massaging his scalp firmly. Peter's eyes drift close and he leans against his alpha's strong thighs as the hands continue to work their magic. Every breath he expels carries a soft sound, not quite a moan, more of a sigh.

He hardly registers the sound of the water being turned off, until his alpha's hands wander to massage his neck, then his shoulders, then slip under his arms to hoist him to his feet.

"Come on, Peter, lift your feet." his alpha tells him and he does, dipping his feet one at a time into the steaming water. His alpha gets in behind him and lowers them the rest of the way and he can't help but moan as the heat imbues his tense muscles.

He dozes off momentarily leaning back against his alpha's chest. He wakes slowly, comfortably and has a moment of déjà vu, remembering when he had woken unexpectedly in this very same position only a week or so ago and had been thoroughly disturbed.

Now he is unspeakably pleased and comforted to wake up this way. He hums in contentment and leans his head further back against his alpha’s shoulder, exposing his neck. His alpha can’t resist a show of submission like that and runs his hand up Peter’s side to rest a large palm softly over Peter’s throat.

Peter shudders softly and his alpha growls in his ear, shifting Peter higher, further up in the v of his legs.

There are teeth and a tongue teasing the lobe of his ear and Peter sinks into the affectionate touches, absolutely boneless.

Hands trail down his sides, sliding smoothly through the water, caressing, soothing, just tracing the contours of Peter’s body. It feels wonderful.

Peter hardly notices the growing hardness behind him until his alpha's thumbs brush over his sensitive nipples and he jumps at the sensation, quickly followed by a moan. His hand twitches against his alpha's thigh, but he can't muster the energy to reciprocate further.

"Peter, do you..?" the voice over his shoulder is quiet and confused.

"Mm?" Peter mutters, not understanding his alpha's hesitation.

"Perhaps I should just put you to bed to sleep." comes a reply that Peter thinks isn't altogether meant for him.

Peter smiles lazily, tilts his chin further back and gives his alpha's jaw a little kitten lick.

"You can do whatever you want with me." he says, blissfully relaxed, "Long as you’re willing to do all the work yourself."

His alpha hesitates for a moment, seeming conflicted, so Peter butts his forehead playfully against his neck.

"You can take what you want." Peter encourages, not really wanting to get out of the warm bath. "You won't hear any complaints from me."

That gets a chuckle from his alpha. "Just don't fall asleep on me."

"And if I do?" Peter teases. It's unlikely, but not entirely out of the question.

"I won't stop." His alpha growls low into his ear, sending deep vibrations shuddering through Peter’s bones and he can't help but let out a broken moan at the thought of his alpha fucking him to unconsciousness and beyond. It probably shouldn't be that arousing a thought, but he's too tired to filter things.

His alpha is stroking his sides comfortingly, "Oh, you like that idea, Peter? When this is over that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'll wear you out until you're begging for respite."

Peter pants into the air feeling very hot, squirming in his alpha's arms as a large hand comes to wrap around his throat, gently stroking up and down his neck.

"I'll take you to bed and I'll fuck you until dawn, until you can't even keep your eyes open anymore. Come here." His alpha tilts his jaw towards him for a deep kiss.

"God, you feel incredible, Peter. The sounds you make." His alpha's right hand moves down and across his hips, snugging his ass against the hard cock behind him, leaving Peter arching.

"That's it, Peter. Let it go."

Peter pants open-mouthed against his alpha's jaw and then the pads of two fingers enter his mouth, stroking his tongue. He flicks at them in response, letting them explore, caressing his lips, testing the sharpness of his canines.

It's almost difficult to process all the sensations his alpha is visiting on him. Everything feels a little fuzzy and he's so comfortable and warm and he doesn't have to worry about anything, he can just sink into his alpha's arms and react. He's running on instinct now, unguarded by pride.

He moans through the fingers in his mouth, hands clenching and unclenching against his alpha's thighs as the sensations catch him up and run through him.

He lets every moan, every hitch of breath, every sigh of pleasure come tumbling out of his mouth.

"Fuck, Peter." his alpha bites out, evidently enjoying Peter's vocalness, but Peter hardly notices the words.

"I need you."

Those words cut through Peter's hazy consciousness and he arches, eyes shocked wide open.

"Please" Peter cries, before he realizes why. Then he squeezes his eyes tight shut. This feeling, this desire to be needed, he doesn't want it. It hurts and he doesn't know why. He has never needed anyone and he's fine. Why should anyone else need him?

"Peter." his alpha repeats, nuzzling against Peter's throat. "Peter."

He repeats Peter's name like Peter is going to save him.

Peter scratches blunt human nails down his alpha's thigh, almost unaware of what he is doing.

He loses time, he thinks, in hazy, languid pleasure, soaking up his alpha's affection like a large very content sponge. There are fingers, suddenly, stroking just behind his balls, so gentle, slow, teasing.

Peter relaxes into it with a whimper, giving a helpless twitch every once in a while, letting his legs fall open, half folded. There’s a rough tongue lapping just under his ear and a soft voice that comes in and out of focus.

“That’s it, Peter. Yes, open up for me. I want to watch you fall apart.”

And he is falling apart, losing his grip on things, sensations overwhelming thought, but so gently and softly.

He drifts through the pleasure until a finger presses against his hole, easing in just past the tight ring of muscle. Peter moans and his hips twitch in his alpha’s grip.

“So relaxed, Peter, but we still need something to slick you up with.”

The voice, the words and their meanings are dim and vague in his mind, all he knows is he feels so good and he wants more and his alpha is going to take care of him.

“Come on, Peter.” The voice is more insistent.

His alpha pushes them up to sitting, then kneeling, then further until Peter is on his hands and knees in front of him. He puts Peter’s hands on the opposite rim of the tub and Peter settles into the new position, slightly indignant at having been dislodged from his comfortable recline.

He crosses his arms on the rim and rests his head on them, stretching with a yawn. He arches down to keep more of himself submerged in the warm water.

There is a rumbling noise behind him, a growl and Peter’s instincts purr inside him, thrilling at the sound of an alpha behind him, preparing to mount their beta.

Peter drifts half to sleep against the cool side of the tub, shifting only when a hand moves to the underside of his thigh, lifting it up, opening his legs further, to rest one knee on the side of the tub.

Peter makes a sound of displeasure. It takes far too much concentration and effort to balance on one knee. He’s happy to put his ass in the air for his alpha, but he’s not interested in acrobatics.

“Hush, Peter.” His alpha soothes him, scooting up to slot them together. He leans over to cover Peter with his own and runs a hand down the spread thigh to the place where Peter’s legs meet, tickling the sensitive crease there before moving back and getting down to business.

Peter sinks back into his half-daze as he grows more used to the position. He’s warm and there is an alpha taking care of him, lapping at the little divots in the small of his back and pushing slick fingers slowly inside him, filling him up, going so deep.

Peter pants loudly against his forearms. He feels so hot, like he might melt or faint and he hopes he doesn’t faint because everything feels so good and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“You’re so perfect for me, Peter, so willing to give yourself over to me. It’s what you crave, isn’t it?”

He can’t even tell how many fingers are inside him now, but they feel so good and deep and he’s so full, but not full enough yet. He’s so open, so ready, but he can’t communicate what he wants. He feels such unbearable pleasure and he doesn’t think he can take it, but he just wants more and finally a word, without thought or permission is wrenched from him in the form of a long sobbed moan.

“Deucalion.” The name pushes past his lips like a cry for help.

There is a palpable pause behind him and Peter sways at the stillness, mind not yet caught up to the silence.

Then there is a splash next to him and his hips are shoved roughly against the side of the tub, water sloshes over the edge at his alpha’s careless maneuvers and there are rough hands pulling him open and then he is suddenly so blissfully full of cock that he can’t breathe for a moment.

After that he is all noise and motion and pleasure, giving up completely on being able to do anything but try to brace himself against the bathroom floor and feel and god, does he feel. There is no strategy or nuance, just the hard, fast thrusting of his alpha and he can do nothing but give in, succumbing to the feeling of being mounted and fucked, of being so thoroughly used.

The water churns around them, as chaotic as Peter’s thoughts and then there are no more thoughts as his alpha’s hand finds Peter’s cock and begins to pump it just as brutally as he is pounding Peter’s ass and after that it is no time and forever before Peter is clenching around the cock in his ass, hands scrabbling against the side of the tub, back arching so prettily for his alpha.

There is no consideration for his orgasm, however, his alpha continues, hips slapping against Peter without pause, the hand that had jacked him off retreating back to his hips, to hold him in place.

This is good. This is so good. He is still sensitive, still riding high on his pleasure, but boneless now he can enjoy the relentless fucking at a more leisurely pace and he does enjoy it, stretching open under his alpha as far as he can, toes curling up in pleasure, murmuring nonsense encouragements, being needed.

Finally, finally, his alpha breaks, abandoning his hold on Peter’s hips and instead encircling him in his arms, pinning him against the side of the tub and biting down on Peter’s scar. The pain is sharp and bright, but he feels so safe in his alpha’s arms, with his hips still thrusting gently and his cock still twitching in Peter’s ass, filling him up so well.

His alpha withdraws slowly, allowing his embrace to soften. He laps at the bite mark, a few beads of blood gathering at the broken skin.

Peter remains lax in his arms. The water has cooled to a somewhat less comfortable temperature, but Peter still feels quite warm at the moment, still wrapped up in his alpha’s strength.

He hears words, but it takes several moments for his brain to kick in enough to interpret them.

“Peter.” His alpha says brokenly, arms tightening around him just little.

“Alpha?” Peter asks, drowsy and fucked out.

“I can’t lose you, Peter.” Deucalion says softly into his neck. “When I fight the darach don’t interfere. I cannot have you hurt. I cannot lose you.” His alpha explains.

“You won’t.” Peter replies wearily, without thought, “You’ve always had me.”

“I need you, Peter.” His alpha says and he feels a shudder of pleasure and pride at those words, then a sudden shift in mood. Soon this will be over and he won’t be needed by anyone at all. Deucalion won’t be his alpha anymore. He’ll be free of Peter, just as Peter will be free of him and they’ll both go their separate ways.

He wonders idly if Deucalion will go back to Riverside to reclaim his territory. He wonders what he will do.

“I’m not going anywhere, alpha.” Peter says instead of voicing his thoughts, but he fears it comes out a little lackluster.

“You have no idea, no idea how much I need you.” His alpha whispers into his ear. There’s a soft growl in his voice and he tightens his grip around Peter.

“I’m sorry, Peter.” He says, startling Peter out of his relaxed state. “I know I’ve hurt you and that I’ve made things difficult for you, but I promise once I’ve killed the darach, once we’re mated things will be better. I promise you, Peter, no one will ever hurt you again.”

Peter shrinks and curls in on himself. His alpha might be right, but not for the reasons he thinks.

“Thank you, alpha.” Is all he can think to reply to the empty promise.

Deucalion pauses in silent disappointment and Peter tenses as the moment is drawn out.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” His alpha says finally and Peter is grateful.

Deucalion towels him off and herds him into bed. He falls asleep just in time to hear a soft murmur.

“I’ll never let you go.”


	36. In Which Peter's Trap Succeeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end! All the players come together for the finale!
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!! 
> 
> This chapter got rewritten. If this is the last chapter you read, I recommend you read it again. :P Ooops!!

Deaton’s potions arrive early enough in the morning for Stiles to complain about it, around 9:30 am. It comes in two little bottles, one black, one clear, with a note that simply reads “dubious”.

Peter waits until Stiles is gone before laughing long and hard about that. Good old Deaton. He won’t go out of his way to help or hinder, but he gives you his opinion every time, asked for or not.

There’s nothing else for Peter to do now, than trust that his machinations and manipulations have been effective.

He and his alpha have fucked three more times. They even made it to the bed, which was half-novel in itself.

It would have been a great day and a half of waiting if it hadn’t felt so desperate. There were so many things that Peter hadn’t wanted to resort to, so many lines he hadn’t wanted to cross and, in the end, so many that he had ended up crossing anyway.

It’s strange because he had cared so much before, about protecting the pack not only from Deucalion, but from the reality of what he was going to do, what he was going to sacrifice, but they know everything now.

He had tried to protect Deucalion from the influence of the demon, from himself, but here he is, in bed with a possessed man not knowing to what extent his actions are freely made and he’s been enjoying it. It feels good to just let himself go, to just obey. It feels so good that he has to remind himself why he wants to change things, why he wants to go back to being practically an omega in a pack that despises him, with good reason, instead of being pampered and cared for by his alpha and mate. Does he really want to go back to being half mad with loneliness and guilt, back to being purposeless?

He doesn’t want to, but he’s going to because the truth is that’s what he deserves.

It’s these thoughts that haunt him through the waiting, fingering the vials in his pocket that are the key to ending this madness. Only his alpha’s touch is enough to give him a brief reprieve from his contemplations.

Time drags and then stops.

The moment has arrived.

They are cuddling on the couch in silence after their most recent round, Peter’s mouth still shiny with the evidence of his alpha’s pleasure.

“We should make the final preparations, alpha, if it’s alright with you?” he asks breaking the long silence with quiet trepidation.

His alpha rumbles quietly and unwraps Peter from his arms, stretching as the beta rises.

“What do you need?” his alpha asks, softly smiling.

“I just need you to help me apply some runes. They’ll help work against the darach’s magic.” Peter says, mentally crossing his fingers that his alpha doesn’t ask any more about it. He’s not sure how much more he could explain without resorting to bold-faced lies, which his alpha would easily pick up on.

Deucalion quirks his head, “And what will we be applying these runes to?”

“Oh,” Peter tries not to blush at having forgotten to mention and at having to explain, “On my skin.”

Deucalion grins, then grins wider.

“I would never refuse a chance to mark up your skin, darling.” He flirts, “But I fear the limitations of my sight might hinder more than help.”

“Oh!” Peter remarks in surprise. His alpha seems so capable all the time in ways that certainly made it seem as though he could see.

Sensing his beta’s confusion Deucalion explains, “At rest, I have no sight. There is only blackness. If I exert my power as an alpha, I can see, but only the shapes of things and their textures, not color and not pattern. I can perceive perfectly the layout of this room, but all surfaces are, to me, different shades of solid grey. It’s mostly passable, but it becomes very frustrating for reading things. The printed word eludes me. I can see only the page itself.”

“That’s…” Peter’s brow furrows and his mind is working furiously. That doesn’t make any sense. Not that Peter’s a doctor or really knows any of the healing arts, but if his alpha can manage to heal his eyes enough to see through them to that extent, then first of all they shouldn’t ever revert back to complete blindness, and secondly, why wouldn’t they heal completely. Something is very wrong about that, but Peter doesn’t have time right now to figure it out.

“I see.” He says instead. “Well, luckily I can take care of it myself.”

His alpha nods, curling back up on the couch, satisfied, “Well, all the same, I hope you won’t deprive me of the pleasure of watching.”

“I couldn’t dream of it.” Peter says, mind far away making plans for which runes to use and where.

“My dear Peter,” Deucalion says softly, rising from the couch smoothly and taking Peter’s hand in his own. “Are you happy here with me?”

“What?” Peter sputters, “I—“ Has he done something wrong? His breath freezes in his throat and his chest tightens. Oh, god, has he given everything away?

“I—I—Yes!” He finally gets out. “Yes, please, I’m sorry alpha, if I haven’t seemed—I am happy here. Have I done something wrong? I—“ He’s panicking, he knows, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

His alpha takes his face in his hands. “Hush. Shh, Peter. It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m pleased with you. You’ve been very good.” Deucalion presses their foreheads together softly and strokes Peter’s cheeks hushing him all the while.

A strange buzzing sense of calm descends on Peter and he settles, panicked breaths slowing down and focusing on his alpha’s face.

“You haven’t displeased me, Peter. Only…” he pauses. “You used to smile, Peter.” A finger traces the corner of Peter’s lips as it strokes across his cheek. “I want to make you smile again.”

It takes Peter a moment to gather himself, to remember the game he’s playing. He gives his alpha a soft smile.

“I’ll smile again when this is over. I’m just worried about you, about what might happen.” Peter shivers, his alpha has no idea how true that is. The magnitude of what he’s about to try is crushing and yet he feels ready.

Peter takes his alpha’s hands from his face and kisses each one, then presses a kiss to his mouth.

“It will be over soon.” He says, breathing the same air as his alpha. It is the only sentence that truly consoles him now. The end is coming so soon he can almost taste freedom. Strangely it tastes bittersweet.

 

 

It doesn’t take as long as Peter thought it would to put the runes on his skin with a special ink he had previously procured along with a few reference books of runes from the drop sights he’d given to Deaton so long ago. The ink won’t rub off or smudge and it’s infused with sage, just to give it a little boost of power.

He makes some excuse, something about running an errand or letting the ink dry or some part of the ritual involving movement, to get to the elevator and retrieve the small knife that Chris Argent had given him. He straps it to his wrist, the left one, just in case.

The alphas gather for the last time.

They hardly look at him as Deucalion explains. They protest at his going alone. They don’t trust Peter or his plan, but not because they think he’s going to purposely betray them. Rather, they are skeptical that a beta could do what they could not and outwit the darach.

Still, Deucalion is their leader and they obey him.

It gives Peter a little smug pleasure to see the alphas put in their place by Deucalion. He doesn’t even feel bad about it.

He manages to send one text to Stiles. It simply says “It’s tonight. Do not come.” It’s the best he could do on short notice and the less said the better. He can only hope they don’t show up. Things will be tense enough with the alpha pack lurking around outside the barrier. Having Derek’s pack show up to do the same will be disastrous. The alpha pack should be able to finish the darach off once she’s been weakened.

That’s a gamble too, of course. Kali might just kill all three of them and take over as the new leader. Hopefully not, though.

Peter doesn’t really have time to think about the aftermath. He’s got his plan. He knows what he can achieve and how. Afterwards the others are going to have to step in to sort the rest out.

It’s cool in the fading light as they walk to the nemeton. Peter shivers feeling uncomfortably introspective in the calm before the storm. He touches the bottles in his pocket squeezing them together to reassure himself. It’s not much hope.

He could die here.

“Stay safe, Peter.” His alpha says as they approach the darach who is standing, waiting for them.

 

 

Peter feels small, the pawn in a game between these two titans who are about to confront each other directly each one thinking that the advantage is theirs, that Peter is with them.

Peter is with only himself. He gathers his strength, all the cowering and pretending and lying that he’s done have culminated in this moment, everything that he’s sacrificed in this game to get himself in the advantageous position will only be worth it if he succeeds.

He changes his thinking.

These two fools, for all their power, they have fallen right into place for him. They each think that he is the card up their sleeves, when really he is a rope around their necks. They will fear him before the end.

Three steps outside the mountain ash circle and Peter drops the clear vial to the forest floor. It is going to be the key, Peter’s insurance, his lifeline.

It’s three tense steps during which everything could come crashing down, but the darach closes the circle as soon as they step over the line and Peter breathes a sigh of relief, then grins.

So far so good.

They enter the circle confidently, he and his alpha. The darach stands, equally assured of victory, next to the nemeton, which has been prepared for the exorcism ritual. It glows, awash in candlelight, the smell of sage and old blood is strong and there are ropes woven of wolfsbane and hemp at four sides of the huge stump.

Peter smirks and grounds himself in the role he’s playing.

The game is starting.

He lets his alpha step in front of him, taking the spotlight for the last time.

“So you showed up after all.” The darach speaks first. It’s unclear to Peter whether she’s addressing him or his alpha. With a careless gesture she completes her circle of mountain ash and Peter feels an uncomfortable prickling at the nape of his neck, feeling the wolf’s power drain out of him. She’s done something else, something that is leeching Peter’s natural abilites, making him essentially human, but there’s no turning back now.

They are sealed in until the darach is dead or they are.

Deucalion looks at Peter, signaling him to use their own version of the same trap on the darach, mountain ash for the magical, but Peter hasn’t brought any such thing. His first lie is about to be discovered.

His alpha frowns at him and Peter meets his gaze with a mild blank expression. It makes him feel slightly sick with fear to disobey his alpha, but this is how the game is played.

The darach laughs.

“What’s the matter, demon wolf? Having a little trouble with your pet?”

“Peter.” Deucalion says firmly, not yet understanding that he should at least be nervous.

It hurts more than Peter thought it would to watch this realization. Deucalion doesn’t even look confused, only concerned.

The darach laughs again. “Come on, Duke. Even you can’t be this slow.”

“Peter. What are you doing?” Deucalion hisses at him.

Peter refuses to meet his eye, doesn’t even acknowledge the question. Then he takes a very calculated step towards the darach, leaving his back to her and facing off against Deucalion.

“Peter.” Deucalion says his name like he’s scolding a child. “You can’t…Peter?”

There it is. The realization, disbelief.

Peter’s own words come back to haunt him as Deucalion stares uncomprehending.

_I’m your loyal beta. I would never let her hurt you._

He’s a liar. He’s a liar and a traitor, but he’s going to win.

The darach is savoring her victory. “Your little boy toy was tired of being a second class citizen. He’s working with me now.” She smirks viciously as Peter watches Deucalion reel in the face of his betrayal.

“Peter, _why_?” Deucalion looks lost.

“Why?” Peter repeats, letting the fear and frustration and humiliation of the past weeks flood through him. It’s all just anger now. “You hurt my pack, my family. You forced me to choose between them and my freedom. Did you think I enjoyed licking your boots? That I liked being your slave? Did you think I really meant all those things I said, that I really loved you?”

Peter scoffs. “I did what I had to do to survive. Like I always do.”

Deucalion is lost, the plan, his whole conception of reality rudely yanked out from under his feet. Peter has to hold himself back, has to stop himself from going and comforting his alpha, but even as he feels sick at the sight of his lover in pain Deucalion’s face begins to harden with determination.

His eyes burn red and he turns his gaze to Peter. He says no words, but Peter understands. Peter has understood from the beginning.

None of them will walk out of here alive if Deucalion has his way.

But he won’t. Peter smirks, taunting.

Deucalion growls. “I’ll deal with you later, Peter.”

Then he turns back to the darach, taking a defensive stance and preparing to fight.

The darach laughs again, “Don’t you get it you stupid mutt? The deck’s been stacked against you. You’re through. Finished. You can’t fight me. I’ll crush you just like that other alpha.”

The darach makes a forceful gesture and the air is suddenly hard and alive and it moves, bursts through the air tossing forest debris into the air. Peter can’t see through the curtain of leaves for a moment and he is thrown against the cold ground, pushing air out of his lungs in an abrupt gasp.

He scrambles to his knees to see Deucalion flat on his back unmoving and there’s a piercing sensation of pain through Peter’s chest at the sight, but he can still hear his alpha’s heart beating. He can still see his chest expand with each breath.

The darach is more powerful than Peter had known. He shrinks away briefly, caught in a nauseous battle between fear and instinct and Deucalion being in danger.

Then he catches himself reacting and tightens his control. He still has a job to do. He’s orchestrated this encounter, but there’s more to come.

Peter steps closer hesitantly. The darach, in contrast, strides over to Deucalion’s body with confidence. She grabs a leg by the ankle and begins to drag the werewolf effortlessly towards the nemeton. It seems enhanced strength is something she possess too. It’s not surprising.

Peter watches. The betrayal is done, but he needs to be sure that the darach will honor their agreement.

“Remember, when you’re finished with him he’s mine to kill.” Peter says, somehow managing not to sound like he’s afraid or regretful or like he feels disgusted with himself.

“Don’t worry, wolf. I’m not interested in taking his _life_.” The darach says, paying him little attention. Good. She’s gotten what she wants from him and now she feels like she can ignore him and she goes about lashing Deucalion to the stump, spread eagle, one rope for each arm and leg.

Peter uses the time to drink the first vial of potion, the black one. It exudes a coldness, even in the warm summer air. He does not hesitate to drink it.

It tastes sweet and dark, like overripe fruit, not unpleasant but ominous.

He swallows it all.

There are no effects right away, but it is slow-acting on werewolves. Hopefully slow enough. The clock is ticking now. He hopes this ritual doesn’t take long.

Peter moves to the sidelines, towards the edge of the mountain ash barrier and waits, watching in quiet focus.

The process is actually fascinating. The darach is highly skilled and quite experienced.

Her knots are professional, designed to hold indefinitely, not maim. There are thick loops of rope wrapped around Deucalion’s wrists and ankles connected to four stakes thrust deep into the ground.

In the interim Peter reaches for the part inside him that is the wolf’s power and encounters a block. He pushes against it, testing, but the barrier holds strong. He cannot push his teeth into fangs or his human nails into claws. He doesn’t have his usual strength and he’d bet his life that he can’t heal either.

The darach begins her ritual and Peter hunkers down to wait. It’s a complex ritual, precision and timing and power expertly executed. The darach’s incantations are flawless and the air is thick with it.

Peter allows himself a moment of congratulation. He was right to have the darach do this. Peter could never have done it himself, not with his werewolf heritage. It would have taken years to train Stiles to be adept enough to attempt such a complex ritual and even if they’d had the time, who knows if the boy would even be capable of commanding this level of power.

Peter doesn’t look at the body on the Nemeton. This is just academic observation. It is far away and formal. Clinical. Cold.

Peter recognizes some elements of the ritual and their meanings. The burning of certain combinations of herbs in small stone bowls, the bloodletting, some of the runes, fewer of the incantations and none of the gestures she is making with various wands.

The back of Peter’s neck prickles and he turns hesitating to take his eyes off of the ritual. He needs to be ready.

Still, he has to be wary of what might be outside the circle too.

He turns for a quick glance, just to check, and ends up staring.

Damn it. Gods damn it.

Stiles nosiest-motherfucker-in-Beacon-Hills Stilinski is yelling at him and gesticulating animatedly, but Peter can’t hear what he’s saying. The darach’s barrier must also be blocking sound, a disturbing revelation. And, surprise, surprise, the whole damned pack is standing behind him. Even Chris fucking Argent is there, kitted out in his hunter-commando gear.

Peter’s gaze flicks to meet Derek’s briefly, then he looks away.

Their presence changes nothing. They won’t be able to break the mountain ash barrier until the darach is dead.

Still, at least the alpha pack seems to be absent. Surely the had seen the tide turning and had run off.

Peter can feel the beginnings of a headache building at the base of his skull and his mouth feels dry and cottony. The potion is beginning to affect him. He clenches a fist and swears to himself that he’ll hold on long enough, at least long enough to kill the demon.

The large candles nestled in the roots of the Nemeton flare up and the darach’s vocalizations reach a fevered pitch.

Peter catches himself running a hand over the runes painted onto his arms and chest and hips, checking over even though he knows they’re right and he couldn’t change them now anyway.

The candles glow white, flare and then recede.

It’s time.

Peter feels strangely calm as if all this is happening to someone else very far away.

Nothing seems to happen for a moment. Deucalion is still and silent on the giant tree trunk. Then the candles flare again and Deucalion's body seizes, once, twice and his skin begins to ooze black, thick, oily tar. It covers his whole body rippling grotesquely, an inky mass. Then it surges up, pulling away from Deucalion's body, sitting up and swinging around, it stands, a man-shaped mass of black, writhing tendrils. The air burns with a miasma of darkness.

The darach looks triumphant and worshipful, but not for long. This is the moment. The board has been crossed. The pawn will become a queen.

There is a faint glow exuding from the cuffs of Peter’s sleeves. The runes are lighting up, glowing brighter as the demon takes a stilted step towards Peter and it's wrong. It's so wrong. It’s shaped like a human, but it moves so wrong.

Peter stands his ground and tries to remember to breath.

"What are you doing?" the darach says in disbelief. "No! You're supposed to come to me. _I_ bound you!" and the candles suddenly flare again as she tries to exert her will, but the runes on Peter's skin burn brighter and the sleeves of his shirt start to fray against their power. She is no match for the runes and the will of the demon itself. It has decided on its host.

"No!" the darach shrieks again.

The demon stands before Peter now, a bubbling, roiling mass of chaotic flesh. Peter trembles and tries to push his nausea down. The thing reaches out and his wolf screams behind the barrier the darach has put into place. Every instinct is flinching, desperate to not do this, but he’s come this far. He’s come too far.

The thing reaches out, something like an arm, and Peter finds he couldn’t move if he wanted to. It touches him and Peter loses time, loses place. He is falling, drowning in a pit of tar. He can’t breathe and it feels like he’s being constricted, being crushed. His head is so full of something that isn’t him, something powerful and old and wrong, he feels like he’s going to be pushed out. There’s no room for him here.

And he can feel it moving through his mind, through his memories, fitting itself into all the empty spaces, invading, twisting and coiling and nestling into his brain and slowly the immense pressure fades, nook by nook. By the time it is done Peter is saturated.

He comes to his senses on his knees and has a distinct feeling of being displaced, out of control, an observer only.

The air in the clearing feels normal once more, just the natural scent of pine and the forest, none of the menacing magic static that had filled the space before.

Peter stands and it’s like double-vision, but for movement, disoriented he almost falls but a stronger force locks him in place. The demon steadies him.

 _You are a comfortable fit, clever little wolf_ , the demon praises him. _Just as I thought you would be._

Peter’s ears ring in the physical world, but the demon speaks directly to his mind. He can see the darach crouching defensively behind the makeshift alter of the Nemeton. Deucalion is still and silent lashed to the stump, but he lives and Peter’s heart leaps. Even if he succeeds at nothing else, even if he dies here, he will have done that one thing. He will have freed Deucalion.

 _Yes_ , the thing hisses, _he still lives so that you may kill him and take his power._

Peter turns towards the darach who is watching them with the eyes of a wounded animal, desperate and panicky and uncomprehending.

 _We kill her first. I want to take my time with him._ Peter replies.

 _Hmm, very well, little wolf,_ the demon acquiesces, _I will indulge you, but just this once._

They turn towards the darach and power surges through Peter’s veins. It’s so sudden and strong that Peter lets loose a shout of exhilaration. He understands now why people would volunteer to be vessels for beings of power like this. It’s intoxicating. He feels unstoppable.

They move towards the darach with deadly purpose, thrumming with matching bloodlust, like a sword and a sword master acting as one.

The darach backs off quickly, throwing raw power at them like her first strike against Deucalion, and invisible wall of force hurtling towards them at whip crack speed, but the strike doesn’t even reach them. The demon parts the blow with barely a gesture and it washes past them, like water breaking over a cliff face.

Peter laughs. This power is incredible. It’s laughable. It’s utterly laughable that he would ever be involved in the same conflict as a demon of this power, let alone win.

The demon misunderstands his hysteria and settles smugly further into Peter’s mind. It is prideful.

Peter just can’t stop laughing and he’s glad the demon is letting him have this time. He can’t let the darach die until the demon is weaker. Once the darach is dead, nothing will be holding them inside the mountain ash. He’ll have access to the antidote. The demon might survive.

He has to stall.

Peter flatters it.

 _How_? He wheezes, still laughing. _How did he not notice? Power like this?_

 _The one they call Deucalion_. The demon chuckles. _I possessed him at his most vulnerable, through rage. He attributed the increase in power to the slaughter of his pack mates._

Peter flinches at the mention. He had known those wolves. Had run with them on full moons, too.

 _How did you possess him_? Peter forces himself to ask. It will buy time. The darach is inching around the edges of mountain ash, no doubt trying to figure out how to run without being killed by Derek’s pack and the waiting hunter. He has to buy the time, but he really doesn’t want to hear this story.

 _It was through one of his pack mates, Marco. That one was full of rage and he too had the spark. It was easy to take him. Their pack was betrayed by hunters with whom they were trying to make peace_. The demon scoffs.

 _With half his pack slaughtered and newly blinded, I sought to take the alpha power for my own vessel. Deucalion surprised me by killing my vessel before I could react._ The demon laughs. _His rage was so complete he almost sucked me in by himself, but he was not an ideal host. Without the spark I could not see through his eyes without damaging them._ The demon mentally shrugs and Peter shivers. _So I damaged them._

Peter’s mind withdraws in horror and revulsion.

He had known Marco, had shared meals with him. And Deucalion hadn’t been permanently blind before the demon?

He feels sick. Sick and shaky at the thought of what the demon has done, of what it’s responsible for.

No, it’s not just the thought of how Deucalion had been taken over and used making Peter feel sick. It’s the poison working its way ever faster through his veins. Good. He’s bought enough time then, hopefully.

The darach sees an opening, apparently, and throws another wave of force at them. It’s weaker, but it hits them harder and the demon has to strain to block the blow.

Peter thrills at the evidence. It’s working. They’re both weakening.

The demon reels back, confused at its own weakness and the darach ducks back again. The demon squirms through his mind, checking his systems for failure and decay growing ever more scared by the evidence. This vessel is dying.

 _I’m not sick._ Peter volunteers. _It’s not cancer or some other natural disease._

The demon flexes through his mind, silently, wordlessly demanding answers.

Peter thinks about not telling it, but it would just strip his memories until it found out. Peter briefly weights the cost of resisting with the time it will take for the demon to discover the information by force.

 _What have you done?_ The demon urges. _What have you d o n e to me?_

Probably not worth it. Besides he’s earned this.

 _I’ve poisoned you._ Peter replies simply. _A potion to protect against possession. Well, I say protect, what I really mean is it’s going to tear you apart and consume you._

Peter smiles and it feels good.

The thing screams through his mind thrashing in outrage, trying to escape to find a new host.

 _There’s no way out._ Peter tells the thing calmly as it whirls through him like a tempest. He is the eye of the storm. He thinks it might be weak enough now that his mental shields should be enough to protect him. Should.

 _These runes weren’t just to override the darach’s exorcism so that you would possess me instead of be consumed by her._ Peter smirks. _They’re also to keep you in until you’re_ dust _._

Peter is vaguely aware that outside his mind, beyond trying to distract the demon, the darach is still very much alive.

 

The demon wails inside him, thrashing angry and thwarted, fully feeling the effects of the potion, and finally understanding. It must be a very long time since the thing felt any pain itself, rather than through its host.

But it’s panicking and the poison hasn’t had _that_ long to work. It’s still so powerful, so overwhelming. Peter stiffens as he realizes he’s miscalculated.

The demon snatches control, tightening, squeezing Peter’s mind until his senses are being blocked out and it tenses his muscles. All of them, straining. Push against pull.

He’s seizing, muscle fibers tearing and tendons snapping and then the demon is in control.

The darach has made a swift but cautious approach, taking advantage of the internal struggle.

She wraps her fingers around Peter’s throat, but Peter doesn’t feel it. His body, his senses, they belong to the demon now.

“You little traitor. I should have known.” She hisses, squeezing his neck hard, “Once a turncoat always a turncoat.”

She doesn’t realize the demon is in control. Peter’s body flings out a hand and the darach goes flying backwards. It burns through Peter’s mind and his spark flares. He had known the demon would be able to use his spark to cast spells, bypassing Peter’s own limitations as a werewolf, but he hadn’t thought it would hurt so much.

The demon moves Peter’s body. He stands, slowly, unsteady on his aching, torn muscles. The demon doesn’t care about physical limitations. It can force movement and strength with its magic. To tell the truth, Peter doesn’t care much for physical limitations himself, although he has to obey them. He’ll heal just fine as soon as he’s out of the circle.

The demon’s control falters and Peter nearly falls.

 _We don’t have to die_ , you know. Peter says, sensing the demons weakness. If he can just stall a little longer maybe he can get control back. _I didn’t poison myself without an antidote readily available._

 _T e l l m e_ the demon demands, its physical movements stalling. It doesn’t seem particularly adept at concentrating on the physical world and the mental one simultaneously, out of practice having a body.

 _Just outside the circle._ Peter says. _All you have to do is kill the darach. The circle will fall and you can save us._

The demon strikes at his mind, like a blow to the face, _It will take me e o n s to recover the strength I have lost._

 _And only a moment of hesitation to lose what little you have left_ Peter sneers at the thing.

Peter, more used to the duality of mental and physical existence, has been paying attention to the outside world during their tete a tete. The darach has lined herself up for another attack. Peter gives no warning and the demon is too slow to block.

The world turns upside down and they are against the barrier. The demon, it seems, is in shock, so old and powerful that it hasn’t considered the possibility of pain, of death in eons.

The faintest flicker of pain seeps though to Peter and he uses it, grabs holds of it, embraces it like a familiar friend and uses it to pull himself back into control. The demon’s presence subsides for the moment, though he can still feel is subtly poking at the cracks in his mind, cracks it could never fit through.

Peter jerks back into control of his body and the return of his physical senses is enough to blind and deafen him for a moment. He clenches his eyes closed until his brain adjusts, but there’s no blocking out the pain. It is overwhelming and unlike the demon, Peter doesn’t have the magic to brute force his way past the limitations of muscle and sinew.

She’s the most immediate obstacle now. The demon will die, trapped in his body, whether he lives or not. It’s just a matter of time. It’s weak enough that he’s confident that can keep control.

 _The poison will kill you too, if you don’t hurry_ , his survival instincts remind him.

He opens his eyes and prepares to square off against the darach.

Who is standing next to Deucalion’s prone body holding a knife to his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY ALL!!! As a reward to myself for getting into grad school I'm going to COMMISSION A DRAWING for this fic!! But I don't know what scene! :O So what scene do you think I should commission? Gimme a couple options! <3 love ya'll!


	37. In Which Peter's Trap Fails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE!!!! IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!
> 
> Soooo, I got a bit behind on my updates and last week was the last bit of writing I had. So I had to rewrite a good bit of the previous chapter to make this one make sense. So, I recommend you go back and reread that previous chapter! XP SORRY!!!
> 
> Also, EARLY UPDATE because I'm going away this weekend on a business triiiip! :P

There is a long moment of absolute quiet. They are sizing each other up, re-analyzing the situation before they reengage. The darach squints at him.

“You’re killing it, aren’t you?” she asks in near disbelief. “If you actually wanted the demon’s power you could kill me from there and I wouldn’t be able to so much as draw blood. But you’re not.”

Peter doesn’t answer. She already knows.

“You’re insane.” She realizes out loud.

“A lot of people seem to think that.” Peter replies somewhat absently.

“But _why_?” the darach persists, desperate to understand why her plan has failed, why he has gone to the trouble to sabotage her. “You could have been an alpha. You could have extracted the demon’s power for yourself. Why kill yourself to destroy it?”

Peter’s eyes flick over to Deucalion before he can stop himself. He glares at the darach as the truth dawns on her.

“You actually love him.” She realizes.

“He’s a friend.” Peter replies firmly. He doesn’t know what they are now that Deucalion isn’t possessed. He doesn’t even know how much of Deucalion will really be left at this point or if he’ll remember.

“You risked your life countless times to trick all of us into this exorcism and now you’re dying for him, but you’re just friends. Right.”

“Well I don’t _have_ a lot of friends.” Peter snaps, trying to think of the best plan of attack.

She’s weakened from the power she exerted in the ritual, but so is he. She still has her magic, but he’s human right now and he can’t tell how much of the pain suffusing his muscles is from the demon’s abuse and how much is from the poison.

He has no idea how much time he has left.

All he knows is the time he has is running out.

“So what are you going to do now?” the darach asks sounding unconcerned, slicing through the bonds holding Deucalion to the nemeton. “Let me guess. The next part of your plan was to kill me and then, what? Is there an antidote waiting for you outside?”

She laughs and continues to cut through the thick rope, freeing Deucalion. Peter tenses at each knife stroke.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to die in here.”

Peter growls. It’s getting hard to concentrate on what the darach is saying. His head is pounding and the demon is still squirming through his thoughts.

The darach is right. He’s going to die here, in this circle of mountain ash.

He feels a pang of regret for leaving Derek alone as the last Hale, but it’s probably for the best.

Peter tries to shake the pain off and steels himself for the coming confrontation.

He might die in here, but he’s going to take the darach with him.

“What do you want?” he snarls. She must have reason. Otherwise she would have at least tried to flee or attacked again.

“Half a demon’s better than no demon” She explains as she drags Deucalion’s limp body off the Nemeton with Peter wincing at the callous treatment of his lover, like he’s already a corpse. “It’s still in you, disintegrating slowly, so there’s no time to waste.”She smirks and pats the old scarred rings of the Nemeton. “Step right up, Peter, and I’ll even let your ‘friend’ live.”

He would have done it. He would have crawled willingly to the darach’s sacrificial alter, but the demon is not finished with him.

Peter had been unconcerned. The demon had been dormant, quiet even, in the back of his mind. He had thought it too weak to struggle anymore, but he was so wrong.

_Do you think I will let you go now without taking my vengeance?_ Its voice thrums through his skull, shaking his control loose.

_You will pay._ It hisses pushing Peter’s consciousness down, trying to suffocate it, not even trying to take control of his body, just trying to wreak as much havok as possible.

Outside his mind he can still see the darach roll her eyes at his sudden twitching collapse, their internal struggle affording neither of them control of Peter’s body.

He can hear her words faintly as he struggles to throw off the demon’s attack.

“Demon getting to you? Don’t worry, I’ll still let your _friend_ live. I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic when he hears you died for him.”

She laughs as she drags him to the stump and her voice warps into a far away echo and his vision fades.

_You’re gonna die here._

 

Peter is cold.

Everything is cold and it all hurts. He can’t really feel his hands or feet anymore. He hopes they’re still there. He would miss them if they were gone.

_Focus_ he hears a voice inside him whisper, but he’s not sure where it’s coming from and he feels heavy and slow.

_Focus. You have to focus_ the voice insists.

But he’s tired and the more he focuses the sharper the pain gets.

He tries. He really does. He tries to remember, to focus, to figure out what’s going on, why he’s so cold. There’s something wrong, though, beyond the coldness and the pain. There’s something blocking his thoughts, coiling around his memories, constricting and shattering them leaving confusing shards of fleeting emotions and vague sense-impressions.

_You’re going to die in here_ one shard says to him in a woman’s voice.

Something is laughing at him. Something is in here with him.

_Focus. She’s going to kill you._

Peter shakes his head. Something is laughing at him, playing with him, taunting, toying. Everything hurts and his memories are in shards and this decaying parasite is _laughing_ at him?

Peter grits his teeth and focuses. The pain comes burning back through him, but he holds on, pushes through.

The thing inside him isn’t laughing anymore.

Peter smiles through the pain and his memories snap back into place, sharp and bright.

His eyes snap open and he is exactly where he remembers being, lashed down to the Nemeton.

He can’t have lost that much time, but even as he thinks that, things get fuzzy again and his vision blurs.

The poison is certainly effective and he has to close his eyes against the whirling stars above before he can collect himself enough to piece together exactly what happened.

Peter had failed. He had failed the moment the darach had figured out that he was destroying the demon, that he had done this, all of this, for Deucalion.

She’d had a knife to Deucalion’s throat and Peter sags against the ancient tree trunk, all the fight leaving him. It isn’t fair. He had always known there was a chance that he would fail, but he had been so close.

 

The nemeton is strangely warm under Peter’s back, dry and almost soft, like a blanket. It’s comforting.

Not the worst place to die.

The darach’s ropes are less comforting, the tight restraint a bitter reminder of the captivity Peter had almost escaped. He had been so close to achieving the impossible, to surviving this mad scramble for power.

Peter gives in to temptation and gives a vicious tug to the ropes holding his arms outstretched, a tug which, at his usual strength, would have easily freed him. Something hard pinches against the inside of his wrist at the tug. The darach glances up at him from her resetting of the ritual and smirks. Peter snarls back in an attempt to hide his surprise.

In the shock of losing his usual repertoire of weapons and his natural werewolf enhancements he had forgotten the one mundane weapon left to him: Argent’s knife, strapped neatly to the inside of his wrist where he just might be able to work it free.

A fevered and sick hope fills Peter’s belly. If he can get the knife free somehow without the darach noticing maybe he’ll be able to kill her, maybe he’ll survive.

Calculations blur through Peter’s mind. He glances around taking stock of the situation, of every possible advantage or disadvantage.

He’ll have to remember to keep Deucalion protected this time.

Peter arches his neck around to look over at the alpha. He’s still sprawled limp where the darach tossed him. His face is turned away, but Peter can see his chest rise and fall. It’s something, but Peter still feels a spear of anxiety for the wolf. The danger is far from over.

Peter turns his gaze to the darach next. She’s still lighting candles in preparation for the second exorcism. She doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Peter strains against his bonds again, watching carefully for a reaction, but the darach ignores him completely.

That painful sick hope strikes through him again.

I might live. A voice whispers inside him and the thought makes him tremble, but it’s a cruel hope, dangled in near impossibility, close enough to taste, far enough never to catch.

He still has to try though. He’s always had to try.

It’s difficult and awkward, working the knife free from that angle. He has to bend his whole hand down and press the ropes against his wrist to push the sheath up far enough that he can reach. If he had claws it would be so much easier and his palms are sweaty and he can’t stop shaking. He hopes it’s adrenaline, but his vision is getting blurry in waves and he feels very hot.

Eventually, one painful slide at a time, clawing with his fingernails and straining all the tendons in his hand, he pulls the knife free, hiding it under his wrist, grateful that the darach is on the far side of the nemeton.

She is still busily lighting candles and painting over runes and rebundling herbs to be burned, but she’s rushing; the longer she waits the more of the demon gets consumed.

Next are the ropes and he glances over to the barrier to meet eyes with Argent, silently thanking him for the nearly fanatically sharp edge the blade has. It cuts through the rope, not easily, but handily enough and it’s perfect because if he had cut too fast the ropes would snap and recoil and the darach would notice. He has to wait until he can strike.

It takes an eternity. The waiting is painful, jagged against his senses and his nerves as the poison takes more and more from him. He cannot breath, taking sharp short breaths and everything is softer and hazier and he has to concentrate to keep a grip on the blade, not to drop it, not to give in.

He wants to press his eyes closed and rest, just for a moment, just to find some comforting memory or some reason to go on, but he’s afraid if he closes his eyes he’ll fall asleep.

His head falls to the side, limp, and he can see his pack. _His_ pack. Derek’s eyes are shining red with rage, but he looks like he’s going to cry and little Cora is there beside him, not so little anymore, and clever, sharp, but untrained. They’re both so young.

Stiles and Scott and the other misfit wolves are behind them and it’s strange that they have all come together. Peter would never had believed it. He had not thought these alienated children, all twisted up in their own teenage drama, would grow together into something cohesive, into something with roots and power and strength, into a _pack_.

And the hunters. _Hunters_ working with wolves. Hunters fraternizing with wolves. It’s not unheard of, not by any means, but it always, always ends poorly, ends bloody.

They’re so young though, so hopefully and adamant. Peter had been that way once too. Maybe they’ll make it. Maybe they’ll do what he couldn’t.

He’s going to make sure they at least have the chance.

It seems slow.

His head turns back. The darach bends over him with an ugly gloating smile to place a bowl of what might be blood on his other side. He flicks the knife out and pushes, slicing through rope, snapping it and just like that he is free. He thrusts up with all remaining strength, feeling both weak and powerful at the same time. It is his last gambit. All this suffering, all this effort, everything he has endured was for this moment.

The knife finds her eye like it has known all its existence that this would be the culmination.

She spasms, face caught in the rictus of a scream but no sound escapes; she’s already dead. Her body jackknifes to the floor to settle, sprawled in the roots of the Nemeton, knocking over several of the ritual candles.

The tiny flames catch on her robes and begin to burn. Peter can’t see it tied as he is, but he can smell it. Flesh and hair and cotton and polyester. He’ll never forget that smell.

The fragment of the demon that’s left is all spite and panic and it worms through his mind, latching onto his deepest fears, worst memories and greatest weaknesses. It pushes through his thoughts, shredding whatever it can find, pasting unrelated thoughts over different feelings, merging memories that occurred years apart, blurring familiar faces and scrambling well known locations to make them unrecognizable.

But in the wake of everything that’s happened and with the smell of burning flesh and fire and smoke filling his nostrils and choking him he doesn’t even notice. There is only panic and the animal instinct to get away and there’s the smell of blood now and he can hear the sizzling of fat and flesh and screaming.

It’s like coming home to the fire. It’s like he never left.


	38. In Which Chris Resumes Narration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding dong the darach is dead! But what about Deucalion? WHAT ABOUT PETER????

It seems his whole life has turned upside down since he came to Beacon Hills.

It’s that kind of town.

It is strange, though, to see all the chaos of the past few weeks converge into something so small, so intimate, and in the end, so controlled.

It’s like watching a dance, choreographed by Peter, or a chess game played ten moves ahead, everyone moving into position, pieces sacrificed and advanced.

Even they, standing impotent outside a circle of mountain ash, are simply pieces maneuvered into place.

The alphas, Kali and the twins, ran when Deucalion was struck down, allowing the Hale pack to advance. It’s pretty meaningless, strategically, but it does mean they get a better view. It’s better than nothing even though they still can’t hear what’s being said.

It’s a bit like watching a silent film, but there’s no translation and your life depends on it.

Peter is inscrutable as though he has been chipped out of diamond.

The others watch the darach drag Deucalion to the Nemeton after she handily subdues him, but Chris is watching Peter. Peter is the crux, the catalyst. The others miss it, but Chris watches Peter take something dark from his pocket, put it to his lips and knock it back in one swallow. He maneuvers his way through the pack, pressed up against the barrier like preschoolers against a fish tank to get to Stiles.

“What did he just drink?”

“Was it small? Blackish?” Stiles asks, frowning, turning his gaze to Peter.

Chris nods.

“I don’t know what it is. He got it from Deaton. There was another one too, though, a clear one.”

Throughout the ritual Peter looks over, once, right at them and the sound blockage must go both ways because he looks surprised for a second and then guilty and then he looks away.

It’s not an encouraging exchange.

All too soon the darach finishes her spell and something like a nightmare rises up out of Deucalion, a void bubbling to the surface.

“Shit.” The curse slips out, quiet.

Chris has heard of possessions, of exorcisms, but most of the more recent accounts record demons the size of rats or more powerful ones the size of rabbits.

This one is the size of a human and one glance at Peter who looks pale, but resolved, tells him the wolf knew all along.

“What? What is it?” Derek demands.

“It’s a demon.” Chris shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of one this powerful since ancient Egypt.”

“What can we do?”

Chris shakes his head again. “If the darach had to sacrifice twelve people to do the exorcism there’s no way we can do it ourselves.”

And it hurts, but he has to ask himself if maybe _this_ was Peter’s end game, if this is the part of his plan that they didn’t know and they are all going to slaughtered by a possessed werewolf.

The darach is yelling as the demon approaches Peter and Peter has some sort of markings on him that are lighting him up like a Christmas tree, even from under his clothes. The dark thing wraps around Peter and disappears into him. The darach looks frightened, but Chris still can’t tell if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

They fight. It’s obvious that the darach is on the defensive, but the Peter-demon is still for long moments adjusting, perhaps, to a new body.

The darach attacks in desperation, but this time the Peter-demon is staggered.

“What’s happening?” Stiles mumbles urgently, “He’s just standing there.”

“Peter’s fighting it.” Derek says, fists clenched.

Chris frowns. He wants to believe that, but the power an alliance with the demon could give him.

“Don’t worry. If there’s one thing Peter hates,” Derek says, looking at Chris, “it’s being controlled.”

The moment of reassurance is snatched away when, for no externally obvious cause, Peter goes down, twitching on the forest floor, from god-like power to utterly vulnerable in a second.

Chris finds his hand wrapped around his gun, even though it is useless right now. _He_ is useless right now.

“Break the circle! Break the circle!” Derek is yelling at Stiles, shaking the boy hard and if he doesn’t let up Chris may need to intervene, but Stiles breaks free a moment later.

“Don’t you think I would have by now?” Stiles yells, “I can’t break it while the caster is inside.”

“Oh no.” Allison whispers.

Their attention turns back as the darach approaches Peter, still supine, wide-eyed but unseeing.

He’s dead. Chris thinks. It’s over. The darach wraps a hand around Peter’s neck and Chris isn’t sure what happens next but she’s sailing through the air and Peter (or the demon?) regains his feet, slowly, awkwardly, moving nothing at all like Deucalion’s controlled grace.

“Chris.” Stiles says, face pressed near the barrier, eyes never leaving the confrontation. “How many people recover from being possessed?”

Chris grinds his teeth. “I don’t know. Hunters don’t generally focus on recovery.”

Derek is growling, soft but constant, and the other wolves are growing nervous.

At least, Chris turns away from them and back to the fight, at least all of them together might be enough to take it down. A few of them might survive and he’ll make sure Allison does.

A sharp loud sound takes the wolves next to him to their knees, and even the humans clap their hands over their ears.

Peter is slumped against the barrier, flung against it by the darach’s attack. His body striking against the barrier like the clapper against the side of a bell.

Chris licks his lips and silently begs Peter to get up.

Derek’s begging is not so silent, nor is it unheard, apparently, as Peter stirs and pulls himself to his feet swaying, but looking so human and Chris’ heart leaps within his chest because somehow Peter is not possessed. In this moment Peter is in control.

“Told you.” Derek says, his grin matching Chris’ own.

Peter’s done it! He’ll have the power to kill the darach and somehow he’s beaten the demon too.

Chris shakes his head.

“Your uncle is something else.” He simply says.

Stiles just gives an incredibly dramatic sigh and then another one and says, “I’m going to kill him for not telling us about this stuff.”

Chris shakes his head and smiles. The kid must be very relieved. Chris wonders if maybe, as Peter’s contact, Stiles hasn’t develops some sort of Florence Nightengale thing going on.

Chris watches the darach for signs of attack, but instead of advancing the darach darts over to her left, towards the nemeton.

Towards Deucalion’s body. Is she looking for leverage? Peter already betrayed Deucalion. The thought thrills him. She must be truly desperate to go for a gambit like that.

She pulls out a knife and pressed the knife against his throat.

Peter stands shivering against the barrier, gathering his strength and recovering. When Peter looks up Chris’ heart stutters.

It’s in his hands, more than his eyes. Peter controls his expression well. There’s only a flash of surprise and desperation, but his hands twitch and then clench and then go limp and, beyond all reason that Chris can think of, Peter stops. He just stops fighting.

Chris wants to scream at him to do something, but Peter wouldn’t hear anyway. They’re talking. He doesn’t know what they’re saying. He doesn’t understand why Peter, whose never shied away from destruction or taking a life when he deems it necessary, has been ground to a complete halt here.

“What is he doing?” Derek growls.

It snaps into place suddenly, the reason, the realization, the reason for _all_ of this.

“He loves him.” Chris says. “Peter’s in love with him.”

It makes so much sense, even though it’s completely ridiculous. Peter Hale _in love_. He could have killed Deucalion at any time. He’d said so himself, but he hadn’t done it. This whole elaborate game with the darach, setting up a meeting, the exorcism. The secrets Peter was keeping.

“Damn it!” Chris shouts slamming the heel of his palm against he barrier.

The darach is cutting the ropes, dragging Deucalion off the stump and Chris wonders what kind of man could make Peter Hale fall in love with him.

They’ll never find out at this rate.

Once the nemeton is clear, the darach pats the stump obviously beckoning the wolf over, one hand still holding the knife to Decualion’s throat.

Peter goes.

He staggers two steps and then goes down again.

Chris hisses. Apparently the demon isn’t completely gone.

The darach rolls her eyes and goes to retrieve the wolf. Chris hopes it’s a ruse, a trick to get the darach away from Deucalion and as soon as she gets to him he’ll spring into action, but that isn’t what happens.

What happens is the darach drags Peter to the nemeton. Peter who is limp and quiet, not quite unconscious, but unable to defend himself. What happens is that Peter gets tied down to a sacrificial altar inside an impenetrable barrier and Chris is on the outside.

Everyone is silent, almost reverently so as Derek chants “No no no.” under his breath.

It’s all gone wrong.

After a while Peter seems to regain some form of consciousness. He stirs, tugging at the ropes, looking confused, drugged almost. His gaze casts around without focus, first to Deucalion and then to them.

Chris wills him to make eye contact, but his gaze seems unfocused and Chris can’t tell where he’s looking and then he turns away. They’re going to lose him.

Chris looks around desperately, trying to find a new angle, a new strategy they could use and his eyes fall upon Deucalion’s prone body.

They can’t get in. And there’s on person inside who might be invested in saving Peter’s life who isn’t also tied down to a tree stump.

“Get _up_ you son of a bitch. _Do_ something. This is _your_ fault.” Chris hisses at the barrier under his breath.

They are useless. Peter is going to die and there’s nothing they can do.

Chris straightens, feeling brittle and tired. He steps closer to Derek and puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to give some sense of support that he doesn’t feel himself.

“We’ll avenge him.” He simply says.

There is a frozen quality to the sudden atmosphere. The kids, and they’re all so young, take his meaning and they look to him as a voice of experience.

Then it just feels like waiting.

Chris sees it coming, sort of, when it happens. He sees Peter fiddling with the ropes, just barely at this angle, but he sees it. And it’s strange, but he’s so mired in hopelessness that he’s blind to the implications of the action. It doesn’t register as something that matters until Peter is surging up from the nemeton with _Chris’ knife_ in his fist.

It happens so _fast_.

The knife. Peter striking like a snake. The darach dead. _Dead_ , _finally_ , falling to the ground. The barrier dropping. And Peter is screaming an exhausted agony.

It takes a beat before they are moving, it happens that fast.

Derek makes it to Peter first, of course. Peter is still give these small screams, eyes clenched closed, writhing without sense when he could be freeing himself, when he should be ripping the ropes apart with his werewolf strength instead his wrists are bleeding from the abrasion.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek yells over Peter’s sobs.

Chris shakes his head frantically as he tries to help pin Peter down so Derek can slash through the ropes. It’s too easy to pin him, just hold his wrists against the tree with leverage and human muscle.

“I can’t find anything wrong with him but he’s dying. I can hear his heart slowing.” Derek says, staring at Chris with desperation and hope, like Chris will just know the answer, will be able to pull the solution out of his ass.

He has no idea what’s happening.

Peter is weakening. The powerful flailing is more like restless shifting, like Peter’s caught in a nightmare. There is a trickle of black blood oozing out his nostrils and the moans are more like gurgles now.

“Turn him on his side.” Chris orders, still completely lost as to the cause, but he knows first aid.

He also knows they’re losing him. Even after all this. _All_ this.

Derek is gripping at his uncle with fully extended claws. “Please. I can’t _do_ this.”

Out of the corner of Chris’ perception there is a flurry of startled action, a convergence of the younger wolves towards them and away from something.

Scott yelps out, “Derek! Chris!”

Chris pushes forward, warring with two disparate desires. He wants to stay with Peter, wants to help him. He wants Peter to live, but if he isn’t looking Peter can’t die. It can’t become real.

He makes it past Isaac, the last of the pack to be standing in the way and sees what all the commotion is about.

He is already to his knees, looking dazed and more human than Chris could have imagined. He no longer exudes that sick, dominating sense of power and Chris thinks it must have been the demon’s influence, in part.

And finally, _finally_ , Chris has something he can pull his gun on. He can be useful. Something he knows.

The first word out of the man’s mouth is “Peter.” Of course it is. They’re _in love_ , after all.

Chris wants to tell him to shut up. He’s dying. This is your fault. But he doesn’t, because it’s not his place.

The alpha shuffles forward on his knees, seeming completely unaware of the danger of Chris’ weapon, unaware of anything but whatever small art of Peter he can see through the crowed bodies of the pack gathered around.

Chris takes a step toward the wolf, cocking the gun to get his attention.

Deucalion’s eyes are slow to follow the sound, but they make it to the gun and then up to Chris’ face. There is a thoughtful frown and then a moment of recognition.

The wolf makes to move, to stand, but Chris tenses and brings the gun to bear and the wolf freezes putting his hands up.

“Please.” He says, “I can save him.”

Now Chris has an opening.

“You _did this_ to him.” Chris bellows.

“I can fix it. I can save his life.”

It is strange to have the same werewolf Chris confronted before begging, on his knees, for a chance to save his once-captive. He’s like a different person.

He likely is a different person.

More importantly, if he can save Peter who cares who he is?

Chris makes the decision.

He strides forwards and grabs Deucalion by the back of his jacket’s collar, hauling him up and marching him forward towards Peter and Derek. The wolf doesn’t fight the rough handling. He’s eager to get to Peter, almost outrunning Chris’ hold.

Derek is holding Peter, cradling him on top of the nemeton. Peter, who is not writhing, not moaning. He is still, like death.

Chris flings Deucalion to the ground in front of them.

“Do it.”

Deucalion is weak, it seems. He is slow to reach for Peter and his hand trembles.

Derek growls when Deucalion takes Peter’s hand, but it seems more subconscious than threatening. Deucalion’s eyes flick up towards him, but he doesn’t stop.

He sighs and seems to relax when he touches Peter’s hand, like some huge weight has lifted from him and Chris can see that he’s wrapped his hand around Peter’s wrist, keeping two fingers on his pulse points.

But he’s being too slow.

Chris points his gun again. “Do it.” He repeats.

Deucalion closes his eyes and grips Peter harder and begins to take Peter’s pain, dark black oozing into his veins.

Chris’ eyes narrow. If this is all the wolf has to offer he’s going to enjoy killing him. A little pain transfer won’t save Peter now.

But Deucalion doesn’t stop. The black blood rushing into his hands and spreading up his arms like poison.

Like poison.

“Stiles.” Chris calls loudly, “The black stuff he drank, just before the exorcism. You think it could have been poison?”

“I have no idea.” Stiles’ first instinct is sarcasm, of course, but he thinks about it, pacing a fidgeting relentlessly, “It would make sense. Something must have stopped the demon and I doubt it was sheer force of will.”

“Then it would make sense for the other vial to be the antidote, the clear one. Do you know where it is?” Chris asks, keeping one eye on Deucalion and one eye on Stiles’ answer.

Stiles grimaces. “I gave him both. He didn’t tell me shit about it. Neither did Deaton.”

Chris grits his teeth. They’re back where they started. Damn it to hell. Damn Peter and damn his secrets.

Deucalion is still taking Peter’s pain and it occurs to Chris that this has gone on a lot longer than any other pain taking that Chris knows of. Deucalion looks strained. His eyes are closed tight and his hand is spasming around Peter’s wrist.

“What is he doing?” Chris asks Derek quietly. Even though he doesn’t trust the wolf and is skeptical that this will work, he doesn’t want to distract Deucalion.

Derek shakes his head.

It continues.

It continues and Deucalion gets worse. His jaw is twitching now his teeth are clenched so hard and there is sweat dripping down his neck. He was silent except for a few rasping breaths, but now he is louder, groaning, almost whimpering.

Chris is starting to wonder if this might work, if this is not simply a transfer of pain.

There is a crescendo as Deucalion tenses, hunching over Peter and then gives a howl, the deep red of his alpha eyes shining and then _dimming_ into a cold blue. That is when Chris knows this is something else.

Deucalion slumps over, unconscious once again, although his hand remains gripped firmly around Peter’s wrist.

Chris watches Peter desperately for any sign of improvement, but Peter is pale and still and hardly breathing.

“He’s alright.” Derek says, seeing Chris’ obvious distress. “His heartbeat is getting stronger already.”

Chris sighs and scrubs his face with his hand.

It’s over.

It’s over. They’ve won. Everything is going to be alright. Everything is resovled, except for one thing.

“What do we do with him?” Chris says, nudging Deucalion’s slumped form with a boot.

“We kill him.” Derek snarls, sounding like a feral alpha whose pack has been threatened.

Chris is close to agreeing with him. It would be _so_ easy. It would be the code.

Stiles is the one who steps in, “After all the trouble Peter went to to keep him alive? I don’t think so.”

Chris sighs. They owe him that at least. After everything Peter’s done for them they can do this one thing for him.

“Right.” Chris says. “Let’s get him to your house, Scott, if your mom won’t mind patching him up.”

“She won’t mind.” Scott assures him.

Derek is gentle, almost fearful, as he gathers Peter into his arms and carries him away from the nemeton.

Scott slings Deucalion over his shoulder and Chris walks behind him, just in case the wolf wakes up and tries anything.

The rest they leave. One more unsolved mystery for the Beacon Hills Police Department.

Later, when they’re sure Peter will be all right and they know what to do with Deucalion, Chris is going to come back here and tear that damned tree stump out, roots and all.

 

Melissa is ready when they get to the house, but there’s little she can do except bandage his wrist and ankles where the ropes burned off his skin. For all intents and purposes, he isn’t injured. The poison has been purged. He just needs time. At least that’s what they think. That’s their hope.

It’s absolutely nerve-wracking.

Deucalion is another matter entirely. He’s still unconscious and doesn’t stir. Peter is taking up the couch, so they put a blanket on the floor and leave Deucalion in the corner. Melissa, bless her forgiving heart, even brings him a pillow.

The pack stays for dinner. They order an outrageous amount of take out and after that most of the pack wanders away to their respective homes. Derek stays, of course. Scott and Stiles stay as well. Allison goes with Lydia.

Stiles is even more fidgety after dinner and eventually whatever has been reeling around in his head makes its way out his mouth.

“Deaton knew.” He says, speaking the realization as soon as he makes it. “Deaton must have known that stuff was poisonous.”

“I did know.” The man himself says, stepping through the doorway with Melissa in tow.

Melissa gives a slightly apologetic shrug, “Sorry, I didn’t know anything else to do for him.” She gestures to Peter, “I thought maybe he could help.”

“Yeah, he’s been some help already.” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest and he actually manages to look somewhat intimidating.

“I gave Peter both the antidote and the poison.” Deaton replies with the unflappable ease. “At his request.”

“What the hell happened?” Derek demands.

Deaton sighs as he sits on a chair that has been moved next to the couch to examine Peter.

“Peter convinced the demon to use him as a vessel in order to destroy it. To do that he had to ingest a certain potion designed to both protect from possession and cure it, so to speak. It destroys the demon.” Deaton checks Peter’s pulse and presses an eyelid up to check his pupils as he speaks, “You have to understand, the potion was never meant to be a poison. Werewolves hardly ever get possessed. There are therefore certain incidental ingredients that are poisonous to your kind.”

Deaton leans back, apparently satisfied with Peter’s condition.

“He created the recipe for the antidote himself.” Deaton looks at Peter. “He never got to drink the antidote, did he?”

“No, he didn’t. How did you know?” Chris demands.

“For one thing, you wouldn’t be asking about it.” Deaton says and then pauses for a long moment. “Did Deucalion heal him?”

Chris nods.

Deaton gives a heavy sigh.

“What is it?” Derek growls, perking up at the mere suggestion of something being wrong, of something being wrong with Peter.

“It’s not commonly done and it can easily end in death for both parties. An alpha can sometimes heal a dying beta by taking their pain, but the energy for the healing has to come from somewhere.” Deaton looks at Derek and then turns to Chris, “It takes the spark of an alpha to fuel the healing.”

“You mean he’s…” Derek nods derisively at Deucalion.

“He’s an omega. As is Peter right now, technically.” Deaton says. “However there’s a complication.”

Derek doesn’t even speak. He simply growls.

“The transfer of power for an alpha to give up their status and heal a beta is a very…intimate.” Deaton leans forward and pushes the collar of Peter’s shirt back across his shoulder. “Not unlike the exchange of power involved in a bonding ritual.”

Derek knows right away when he sees. Chris doesn’t know for sure, but from what Deaton is implying he understands just fine.

The bite scar on Peter’s shoulder is different. Instead of the darkly pigmented, roughly healed tissue there is completely smooth but the black ink remains in a perfect tattoo of Deucalion’s teeth.

It will mark him as Deucalion’s forever.

“Well,” Stiles says, somehow always managing to find words when everyone else is speechless, “Good thing we didn’t kill Deucalion when you wanted to.”


	39. In Which the Wolf Awakens II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MORE WORDS. SOMEONE HELP MEEEEeeee :'(
> 
> Next chapter hopefully the three main characters will all perhaps FINALLY HAVE A SCENE TOGETHER! :P (I don't think that's happened yet without someone being unconscious...)

Hours pass. The kids go home and Chris is left with Derek and the house’s actual residents. They really should get out of Melissa’s hair.

Chris thinks about possible solutions: Derek’s loft, Deucalion’s apartment, his own? None are perfect.

Chris thinks about everything Peter said about mating: his reluctance to speak of it, his silent fear at the prospect, the lack of information.

They could kill Deucalion. Chris knows how, knows how to hide the body, get away with it. But now they don’t know if it will affect Peter.

Deaton does a last check up on Peter after getting some toxicology results from his lab. Peter will recover eventually, physically at least. There’s nothing really wrong with him anymore, he just needs time.

Derek paces, growling and snapping at nothing. Chris should be wary, on guard, next to a werewolf alpha so close to losing control, but he’s not. He feels…quiet. Empty.

It’s not unfamiliar. It’s the same feeling he gets after every crisis, every drawn-out mission that consumes your life. You have to remake your meaning.

Still, something should be done about Derek.

“Go out.” Chris says, quiet so as not to wake Peter even though that’s what they’re all waiting for. “Go run, do something. Don’t come back until you’re calm.”

Derek looks like he wants to fight, wants to rail against something, prove his dominance as an alpha, but Chris obviously doesn’t look like a threat, so he backs down, deflates and flees.

Leaving Chris alone with the two unconscious wolves.

Somehow it seems like it was inevitable, the three of them back then. The three of them now.

Deucalion wakes first and it’s good for them to be able to talk first about Peter and what the both of them have done to him. It’s not right, but it’s good.

It is a gentle stirring, a soft confusion and a tragic concern with which Deucalion wakes.

First there is a slow turn of his head and a restless movement of the hand, fingers twitching.

His eyes blink slowly open and, if Chris were in a position to be startled, it would concern him that Deucalion’s eyes are a fierce clear blue, not at all clouded over.

He can see.

He is cautious in his wakefulness, no doubt aware of his location in another alpha’s territory.

Chris watches him unabashedly, cataloguing his process of waking. He sits up and warily meets Chris’ gaze and Chris is struck by how little there seems to be of the old Deucalion in him, in his gaze and his body language. He seems cowed, afraid, haunted. It’s enough to make Chris sigh and rise.

“You want some coffee?” he asks.

The wolf still seems shocked, probably _is_ in shock. His glance darts away for a moment and Chris calmly gives him time to assimilate the situation.

It’s like gutting a wild animal, Chris thinks, wryly.

“If you have tea-“ Deucalion begins haltingly, “that would be…” the wolf trails off.

Chris nods and heads to the kitchen gesturing broadly with one arm for the wolf to follow.

He doesn’t see it, but he can sense Deucalion’s reluctance to leave Peter once he catches sight of him. It is a tangible pause and then an obvious pull, like some physical elastic connection pulling him back towards Peter even as he moves away. Eventually he reaches the end of this tether, the tension snaps and he carries on without hesitation to the kitchen.

Chris gestures for him to take a seat and sets about making both coffee and tea. It is silent, both lost in thought, unprepared and uninterested in unnecessary speech.

At last the coffee and tea are prepared. Chris places the mug in front of their recent enemy and pushes the milk and sugar over to him taking the seat opposite.

“So” Chris begins, “Tell me.”

The wolf puts his hands around the mug, which Chris knows must be too hot to be comfortable.

“I hardly know where to begin.”

It’s strange, after the constant air of menace, the mild mannered and mellow tone seem so natural to the wolf. Of course they must be. This is the true one.

This is the one Peter fell in love with Chris thinks abruptly, startled for the first time since they left the Nemeton.

“Is Peter…?”

“He’ll live.” It’s not much, but it’s more than nothing. It’s what they have.

Deucalion nods and ducks his head.

Chris has to wonder if this bashfulness is typical of the wolf or if it is some after-effect of the possession or just simple guilt.

Deucalion seems reluctant to speak, not sure what is relevant or unsure what to reveal.

“Do you remember what happened?” Chris presses. Something of a test question. He’s read the accounts of other possessions, what little records exist on the survivors are brief.

Deucalion tilts his head, avoiding Chris’ gaze. “It’s like a dream. Far away, hazy, inexplicable at times, like walking through a surrealist painting. Some things are clearer than others.”

 _What things_ , Chris wants to ask. _The killing, the torture, the sex_? But he doesn’t have an interrogation in him. He’s too drained. Deucalion is apologetic. It reminds Chris of Peter the last time they spoke in the elevator, but more lost, more hopeless. Peter had at least had a mission, context.

“When did it possess you?” Chris asks, considering context.

“Four years ago. There was an incident with…hunters. An ambush disguised as a peace talk. They killed most of my pack and left me blinded, permanently I thought.” He shakes his head. “One of my betas was possessed. I don’t know when. He attacked me after and I killed him defending myself. I was angry and the demon took advantage.” Deucalion shrugs. “That memory is very hazy.”

Deucalion runs his fingers along the mug idly, “I never felt possessed. I didn’t know, didn’t have conflict of motivation. I acted. Things happened around me. It felt inevitable. There were no decisions to be made, only it seemed, an instinctual script to be followed.”

Chris nods accepting the answer, brow furrowed, wondering how different the experience had been for Peter, if at all.

Chris looks away thinking, “It will be difficult to convince Derek to let you join his pack.”

Chris feels, more than sees Deucalion startle.

“No. I can’t. Not after—“ he is floundering.

“Look. The two of you are mated. I find it unlikely that there won’t be…effects. So for now, you’re going to be staying.” Chris says, voice hard. “The safest way to do that is to strengthen the pack and keep you both from being omegas.”

“No.” Deucalion is shaking his head, his voice is hoarse and tight. He’s panicking, but Chris can’t imagine why. They didn’t kill him while he was asleep. They aren’t going to now. Does he think Derek won’t let him into the pack?

“No. I can’t. I’m not-I don’t even know—“

“You _can’t_?” Chris explodes and Deucalion actually flinches. “You can’t at least be there for him after what you put him through?”

“It would do more harm than good.” Deucalion replies quietly.

Chris regards him for a moment, trying to decide if Deucalion is sincere or if it’s just his guilt talking.

“You know you’re mated now right?” Chris asks, wondering if the wolf is so addled that he didn’t understand what Chris had said before. “Not just engaged. Mated.”

The coffee cup explodes in Deucalion’s hand, shattering shards of ceramic and coffee all over the table. His face is bloodless, nearly white, and Chris realizes that no, Deucalion had no idea. Maybe, Chris tenses, maybe Deucalion hadn’t known about the engagement at all. Who knew which memories were fuzzy and which weren’t.

Deucalion’s hand moves up slowly to his should, the same spot Peter’s mark is, feeling over smooth skin where it must have previously been ridged scar tissue.

Deucalion stands abruptly and Chris follows right after by instinct.

“I have to go.” Deucalion says, expression distant, but determined. Now he looks like a man possessed, like he’s following some distant signal that only he can see. He strides woodenly out the front door without so much as a glance towards Peter.

Chris doesn’t stop him.

He’ll either come back on his own or they’re better off without him. Chris has a feeling he’ll be back.

He sighs and heads back to the kitchen to clean up the spilled coffee. He owes the McCalls a coffee mug among other things.

 

It’s another full day and a half before Peter wakes up.

They’ve moved him, finally, to Derek’s loft. It makes sense, but for some reason it doesn’t feel quite right. None of this does. For one thing, Chris shouldn’t even still be here. He can tell himself that it’s to keep an eye on the wolves, but there’s no need.

He’s become…invested. It doesn’t seem to surprise the others and maybe it shouldn’t surprise him either. This little band of misfits has a habit of drawing in allies almost as much as enemies.

Allison is certainly pleased. The pack seems pleased too, if wary. They’re probably more relieved that he’s not hunting them than they are glad for his help.

And then there’s Peter.

Peter who is losing time again. He’s already spent six years asleep. How much more could he need?

Chris waits for him to wake up in a sort of placid haze. Derek is full to brimming with nervous energy. He goes out often to work it off. But Chris feels drained. He can be patient but stalking prey is one thing. This is just torment.

There’s been no word from Deucalion, but according to Derek he’s holed up in a house on the outskirts of town that Derek had passed incidentally on yet another run. It’s rundown, with an overgrown yard, nothing sinister.

Chris is just glad that Derek didn’t engage.

Derek is out again and Chris is somehow still exhausted. He hasn’t been sleeping well. Derek’s loft isn’t home, doesn’t feel well protected, but his own home doesn’t have Peter and he worries.

He has nightmares that Peter is killed. Sometimes it’s the demon tearing Peter apart, suffocating him in black. Sometimes it’s the darach slitting his throat on the alter of the Nemeton. Sometimes it’s Deucalion ripping his new beta in half, just like his old ones. And sometimes it’s Peter waking mindless and feral (again) and it’s Chris who kills him, cuts him in half with a sword.

The dreams will stop with time. He knows this from experience, but for the time being he slumps on Derek’s couch and nods off before he can take a sip of the coffee he’s made.

Peter is there.

Dear god, is Peter there and just like that Chris knows that he’s dreaming already, so he’s expecting blood, but for now he’s mesmerized. Peter is on his knees, naked, eyes bright with longing and _hunger_. Chris approaches without thought. Peter is too appealing this way, conscious and safe and _alive_ as Chris nears him.

But it’s still a dream. His actions aren’t really his own, he reminds himself as he reaches down to cup Peter’s face in his hands.

“Alpha.” Peter all but whispers.

“Peter.” Chris says and startles. That’s not his voice. He looks down. These are not his hands, growing claws against Peter’s scalp as the wolf shuffles forwards on his knees and begins to nuzzle at his thighs.

Chris looks around for answers in a panic as Peter scents him muttering ‘alpha’ into the joint of leg and hip.

The dream seems to answer Chris’ questions as, in the otherwise unnoticeably blank environment, a mirror appears.

He is flung into wakefulness with a choke when he sees that the face he is wearing, the hands so confidently stroking Peter’s hair, the hips that Peter is nuzzling, are Deucalion’s.

In another disturbing revelation, reality is not so far from his dream.

Chris startles through waking to the sensation of slight pressure against his calves and on the inside of his thighs and with a slight sick remembrance of wearing another man’s face. The sensations mix and confuse each other.

Chris shoves back against the chair instinctively before he looks down and the breath catches in his throat.

His dream—he has to check himself to make sure he’s not still dreaming, because it’s Peter, it’s really Peter. He’s not naked. He’s wearing a pair of Derek’s sweatpants, but his chest is bare and his face, his cheek is pressed hot against Chris’ thigh. He feels feverish, Chris notes absently.

Peter is kneeling. He’s wedged himself between Chris’ knees, nuzzling against his hip, his eyes closed, feathered lashes light on his cheek.

It takes Chris long moments to assimilate the situation, allowing Peter time to start gently nipping at his fingers.

He finally snaps into action at the touch of a hot wet tongue and hands sliding up his thighs.

Chris snatches Peter’s hands off his thighs, gripping his wrists hard and pushing him back. Peter goes easily, yielding without hesitation and that is just more than too much, more than the nuzzling, the nipping, the licking, more than the fact that Chris is half hard from all those things.

Peter looks up at him like he’s the sun, familiar and happy, eager and loose. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed that Chris is holding his wrists captive or that his caressing has been interrupted. He grins drunkenly up at Chris.

This is…this is too much. This isn’t Peter. This isn’t how Peter is with him.

The grin melts hesitantly off Peter’s face leaving only concern and then worry.

“Alpha?” He says, lifting his chin just a fraction and Chris knows it’s the act of a beta submitting for their alpha. He knows it’s for the benefit of another wolf. It still affects him, though. He is more wolf than he ever thought.

He still has no idea how to react to this though.

“I’m not your alpha, Peter.” He says slowly.

Peter’s brow furrows. He casts his gaze over the room and seeing no one else, turns confused eyes back to Chris. He looks at Chris hands wrapped bruising hard around his wrists and then back at Chris.

Chris drops Peter’s wrists like they’re burning. He inches to the sides, urging Peter back, but trying not to touch him, all that bare skin, until he has room to stand.

Peter remains kneeling, watching with just the hint of a frown.

_He has no idea. He has no idea what’s happening._

Chris doesn’t know if he’s thinking about himself or about Peter. So he ignores it. He can’t…there’s only so many problems he can deal with at a time.

“You need to rest.” He says reaching for Peter’s shoulders, trying to urge him to standing without touching him. “Get back to bed.”

Peter obeys without question, though he does give a suspicious look towards Chris. He’s not looking Chris in the eyes anymore. Again.

He crawls back into Derek’s bed and it looks like he’s pouting, because he doesn’t settle back into sleep. He just keeps watching Chris expectantly.

Chris thinks he should call Deaton as he continues to be sort-of stared down by this pliant version of Peter. He should call Derek. He certainly shouldn’t be here alone. Chris casts about looking for something useful to do to dispel the attention.

“Are you thirsty?” Chris asks finally, somehow sounding even more awkward.

Peter nods.

Chris gets him a glass of water. Somehow, even though Peter seems perfectly fine physically, it feels like a better idea to keep him on the bed. And maybe it’s more for Chris’ sanity than Peter’s safety.

“Here,” Chris presses the glass into Peter’s hand and steps back out of reach.

Peter drinks deeply, finishes the cup in nearly one gulp and the leans back with a satisfied sigh and a small smile.

“Thank you, alpha.” He says handing the cup back to Chris.

Chris takes it.

“Why do you call me that?” he asks carefully.

Peter’s expression clouds. He doesn’t answer.

It’s obvious that his answer is a tautology. _I call you alpha because you are the alpha_.

Chris sighs and frowns.

Peter goes rigid, for some reason that Chris hasn’t been able to figure out. He’s certainly not going to tell Peter that he’s an omega right now. It might be best to let him continue to believe… _best for whom?_ A voice in his mind asks.

Chris curses softly and Peter whimpers, falling back against the bed and exposing his throat.

He’s…He’s _terrified_ , Chris realizes.

And all of a sudden, or maybe not so sudden, Chris has to _fix_ this. He _has_ to fix—Peter shouldn’t be _afraid_ of _him_ , not like this. Not like this.

He wants to ring Deucalion’s neck still, but maybe he was right. Maybe it’s better that he isn’t here. Chris can’t imagine—if this is how Peter reacts to him, if his once-alpha were really here…

He wants to be angry. He _is_ angry. He wants to shout Peter into an equal anger, to pull him from this cowering, just like before.

But somehow he knows that wouldn’t work and the anger slips out of him.

“Shh, sh, sh.” He hushes Peter. “You’re fine, Peter. I’m not angry with you.”

He reaches out to Peter, but he’s still afraid to touch him. Afraid that he might break him. Afraid that he might _want_ to break him.

Peter takes long moments to calm down, to curl back into himself and resume some semblance of normalcy.

“Peter, you…” Chris begins, but he feels too domineering standing over Peter who is still lying, propped up on elbows, on Derek’s bed. He drags a chair over from the kitchen area, making sure he’s still out of reach. Then he continues.

“Peter, do you know where you are?” He can’t very well ask if Peter knows who he is?

Peter looks around, slowly, like he’s just noticing the room for the first time.

“This is…” he pauses, looking troubled,”It’s…” He struggles, eyes flicking up desperately to Chris and Chris thinks he’s scared that he doesn’t know where he is, but it’s something else, he realizes as Peter starts leaning back again.

“It’s not a test, Peter.” He says hurriedly, “You won’t…get in trouble.” To borrow a phrase from Peter’s own description.

Peter relaxes a little, taking a little more time and Chris vibrates with anger again. It’s difficult to see Peter this way. It’s difficult to see Peter cowering away from him.

“He has dark hair.” Peter says. “He’s like me. He’s…we’re…” Peter’s fists are clenching in the sheets.

“I know who he is.” Peter insists, almost glaring at Chris, daring him to disagree. “I know.”

Chris nods gently, “Yes, you do know him.” Chris hesitates to tell Peter that Derek is his alpha. “His name is Derek. He’s your nephew.”

Peter takes a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he says. He sounds relieved, “Yes, I knew that. I just couldn’t—“ He makes a grabbing motion with his hand.

Chris frowns.

Memories eluding him. Of all the things he should remember, that he _would_ remember, Derek would be the first that Chris would guess.

Peter blinks up at him after a large yawn. He is waiting for Chris to tell him what to do. He looks so lost.

Chris sighs and scoots the chair closer and Peter yields to his approach, reclining, relaxed.

Chris reaches out to pet his hair and Peter stills and calms.

“Go back to sleep, Peter.” _I’ll take care of you._

 

As soon as the wolf is asleep Chris calls Deaton to report, but Deaton has no answers. He doesn’t mess with the mind, or so he says. They’ll just have to _see what happens_ and maybe he’ll just _get better on his own_.

Then Chris calls Derek.


	40. In Which a Wolf Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE!!! T_T
> 
> I was out of town this weekend and I'm moving across the country next month. I was supposed to quit my job a few weeks ago, but I'm still working. Obviously IRL things are happening. I WANT to try to finish this story in the next month or two, but it's not really my priority right now. Augusts update may also be late (since my flight is actually on the 19th) but after that it should be smooth sailing again <3 thanks for all the support you guys have given me and your patience in this case!!
> 
> I'm gonna post the first half of July's update right now, so it's gonna seem like a really short chapter (only 2000 words :P) and then I'll post another chapter tonight that will really basically be the second half of this chapter. Right? Right!
> 
> Once again, thanks to you all! <3
> 
> OH ALSO!!! CHAPTER WARNINGS!!!! THIS CHAPTER DOES DEAL WITH SOME EATING RELATED THINGS THAT MIGHT BE TRIGGERING TO SOMEONE WITH AN EATING DISORDER. SCROLL TO THE BOTTOM FOR MORE DETAILS IN THE END NOTES.

Peter sulks in bed for days, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake, but more often than not, asleep.

 

He does not address Chris as alpha again, but neither does he acknowledge Derek and Chris isn’t sure if that’s because he knows it displeases Chris or because he truly does not think either of them is his alpha.

 

He seems to know them sometimes and others time just watches them with a softly perplexed expression.

 

It takes a day and a half for them to realize Peter isn’t eating. it takes them only minutes to realize he  won’t .

 

They sit him at the table and put food in front of him but he only gets this mildly panicked look as though they are testing him. And he looks so pleased with himself when they take the food away and he looks at them like he expects a pat on the head and a treat for  not eating.

 

They are nearly to their wits end when Derek notices Peter drinking a cup of coffee that he’s even made for himself.

 

Chris leaves immediately for the grocery store intending to pick up juice and those dietary supplement drinks. It isn’t a long term solution, but at least it will keep Peter from starving.

 

They call Deaton, who is unsurprisingly unhelpful. He tells them that Peter’s mind may recover completely with time, or not at all. That the only thing they can do is wait.

It’s three days later. Three days of trying to coax Peter into eating. Three days of Derek trying to remember his favorite foods. Three days of tragic self denial on Peter’s part. 

 

They put food in front of him, but he reaches for the juice or the smoothies they’ve made or the dietary supplements. It’s like he’s saying  I know that I should eat. I don’t  want to starve. I don’t  want  to be hungry, but I don’t know how.

 

Stiles figures it out, of course. It’s incidental, accidental.

 

The kids are visiting to see how Peter is and to visit Derek, to see if it’s safe to be a pack, to see if they even can stand being around each other.

 

They get fast food. Chris declines the offer himself.

 

Everyone is sitting around eating, even Chris, although he chooses something else, and Peter is sitting with them, but his fingers are clasped together.

Chris is watching Peter’s hands, but Stiles is watching his eyes. He is staring hungrily at the fries, and even Chris will admit that they smell heavenly.

Stiles’ eyes flick from Peter’s face to the fries in his hand and, with his mouth full, Stiles offers the fries instead of verbally, physically.

 

He holds a fry up for Peter, offering it casually.

 

Things get suddenly tense when Peter leans over and carefully takes the fry in his mouth, drawing back to chew and swallow.

 

There is a stunned silence, although Peter looks more content and perhaps relieved than uncomfortable.

 

Stiles manages to shake off the shock and offers the container of fries, but Peter’s face just crumples into that conflicted panicked mask.

 

“Come on, Peter, take one.” Stiles urges, sounding too impatient and not coaxing enough, as he shakes the carton.

 

Stiles jaw twitches as he grabs another fry, “What is wrong with you?” he says thrusting it towards Peter, “Just take it!”

 

Chris understands Stiles’ frustration, but losing control and shouting isn’t going to help. He’s about to intervene when, once again, Peter bends to eat the fry directly from Stiles’ hand.

 

Chris and Derek glance at each other. Then Chris and Stiles. Then Stiles and Derek meet eyes.

 

“Starving himself.” Stiles says, staring at Derek, eyes hard. “Certain conditions to be met. Technically  you’re feeding me.”

 

The words mean something to the rest of the pack and Chris gets the feeling that Stiles is quoting someone.

 

Stiles looks back at Chris, because somehow they expect him to be able to figure out answers to every problem, but Chris shakes his head. He doesn’t get the reference.

 

“Back when this first happened, before you got involved--” Stiles begins what is sure to be a long winded explanation, but Derek cuts him off.

 

“Deucalion wasn’t letting him eat unless, apparently, he ate from his hand.” Derek says, cutting off the story. “We knew there was some rule he had to follow to get fed but…” Derek barks out a bitter laugh. “He told me I wouldn’t like the answer.”

 

There is quiet for a moment.

 

“I’m going to kill him.” Derek says, suddenly rising. It sounds like a realization rather than a statement of intent.

 

Chris rises too and heads Derek off with a hand to the shoulder, before he gets to the door.

 

“I’m going to  kill him.” Derek repeats, eyes flashing red.

 

“Think!” Chris shakes him and the red fades. “We may need him. In fact…” Chris looks back towards Peter, “I think we should go get him.”

Derek growls and Chris shakes him again.

 

“If we can’t get Peter to stop following his rules, then we get  him to change the rules.” Chris explains firmly. “Right?” He prompts when Derek continues to growl slightly.

Derek backs off, taking a step back, deflating from his puffed up stance.

 

“Fine. Let’s go.” he says.

 

“I’ll go.” Chris says. “He knows me. And I’m less threatening.”

 

Derek growls.

 

“ And  I’m less likely to lose my cool.”

 

“Fine.” Derek snaps, unwilling or unable to argue anymore. He paces to the back of the loft and stomps up the stairs to the balcony.

 

Chris huffs in annoyance and turns back to the group.

 

“You should go home now.” He tells the teenagers, who are finishing up their meal anyway.

 

Peter is still sitting, looking at Chris with a strangely weighing expression.

 

The kids file out, but Chris catches Allison on her way out. Lydia waits in the hall by the door.

 

“Allison…” He is about to apologize. He doesn’t know what for, everything really. For her mother and her aunt. For werewolves and hunters. For this world they brought her into, then kept her out of, then dragged her back into with no explanation.

 

“It’s ok, dad. I get it.” His beautiful daughter smiles. “We all sort of feel like we’re partly responsible. We want Peter to get better, it’s just not really our place. I’m glad you’re helping him.”

 

Chris nods and takes Allison’s hands in his own.

 

“You are the most amazing and understanding young woman. I used to worry that your empathy would be a weakness when the time came to train you for hunting, but we were wrong all along.” Chris smiles, “It’s your greatest strength.”

 

Allison squeezes his hands back and Chris laughs at himself a little, “You and your pack are going to do great things.”

 

Allison gives him an encouraging smile, “Your pack, too.” She says as she slips away and joins Lydia in the hall.

 

She says something to Lydia and they both laugh.

 

His pack.

 

It’s still seems so antithetical to everything he believes, but it’s just words. It’s just words in different contexts. It seems wrong when, in his head, the word pack seems more like enemy.

 

But when he looks around himself and sees all these children, his daughter, Derek, Peter, making lives for themselves, bonding, making connections, the word he would use is family, or at least friends.

 

He supposes it wouldn’t be too bad to be a part of a family of this kind. And god knows Allison could use some more family.

 

Chris sighs and picks up his jacket, glancing over at Peter. He hasn’t done anything worrisome, but Chris still doesn’t like leaving him alone.

 

Peter is still looking at him strangely. He glances up the stares and then jerks his chin towards Chris.

 

“Alpha.” he says.

 

“Yes,” Chris tries, tired, even though he knows it’s not what Peter meant, “Derek is the alpha.”

 

“You sent him upstairs.” Peter says simply.

 

He’s about to argue that he didn’t. That Derek did it of his own volition, albeit in the throes of a tantrum, but then...It takes Chris aback for a moment. He hadn’t wagged a stern finger and told Derek to ‘go to your room’, but he had challenged Derek’s decision and Derek had backed off.

 

“I’m human.” He tries, because it turns out that one could argue that Chris is the one making decisions, although Chris wasn’t under the impression that that was how things worked.

 

Peter just quirks his head and then shrugs, looking away, obviously not interested in counter-arguments.

 

Chris sighs.

 

“Stay here, Peter.” he orders as he leaves the apartment, just in case.

 

He had hoped Deucalion would come back on his own, but it makes sense that he wouldn’t. He seemed to think they still considered him an enemy. Even if he wanted to come back he might be afraid to.

 

Still, he hasn’t left town. He’s still hovering at the outskirts in that run down house. It gives Chris hope that he’s still invested in Peter’s well-being.

 

 

Chris walks up to the front door, long, overgrown stalks of grass brushing at his knees as the encroach over the edge of the walkway.

 

The door has been left partly open, for him, Chris thinks. It is a mute, neutral invitation.

 

Chris swings the door open, hand flat upon the old weathered wood.

 

“Deucalion.” he says, moving out of the hall into the living room as the wolf moves from the kitchen into the same.

 

“Christopher.” Deucalion replies from the other side of the room.

 

“It’s Chris.” he replies. “I’m here to bring you back to the pack.”

 

He may have been a little misleading in his explanation to Derek. Peter and Deucalion are mates. That’s a fact and it’s not going to change no matter how much they hate it. Peter and Deucalion presumably need to be together, whether Deucalion likes it or not.

 

And Chris knows the one piece of leverage that will allow him to maneuver Deucalion with ease.

 

“Peter’s not eating.” he says plainly, “It’s been four days.”

 

Deucalion, who has been looking down, averting his gaze, snaps his eyes up to Chris’ face in clear alarm.

 

He knows, though. Chris can see Deucalion realize why Peter wouldn’t be eating.

 

The wolf’s voice is rough with lack of use, “He will eat if you feed him by hand.”

 

“He needs to be able to feed himself.” Chris says. That’s not negotiable. “None of us are interested in keeping him as a pet.”

 

Unlike some people, he doesn’t say, but Deucalion still flinches and Chris sighs. He really needs to stop baiting Deucalion, but it’s hard to separate the man in front of him from the demon Chris remembers interacting with.

 

“We’ve tried telling him it’s fine, giving him permission, but he won’t respond to us.” Chris continues, “ You need to tell him.”

 

Deucalion gives him a concerned look, “Then he still...thinks of me as his alpha?”

 

Chris sighs, “I’m not sure. He’s...confused. About a lot of things. We think he’s getting better, though.” The might just be wishful thinking though.

 

“And Deaton--”

 

“Deaton hasn’t been able to tell us anything.” Chris interrupts angrily.

 

“Sorry.” He mumbles, as he sees Deucalion’s wary look. “I guess this is all just getting to me.”

 

Deucalion nods his understanding, “I will come with you.” He says slowly, like the decision is being dragged out of him. “To help Peter.”

 

Chris nods calmly, but inwardly smirks in triumph. The first step of fixing this mess is complete. Chris is assuming that once he gets the two of them into a room together and both of them are conscious, it will be difficult for them to leave again.

 

“Where is he?” Deucalion asks as Chris turns towards the door. The wolf follows at an awkwardly large distance, going to extremes to appear non-threatening.

 

“Derek’s loft.” Chris says absently, wondering how different this Deucalion really is. It will be strange to have another adult wolf in the pack. The others are so young, even Derek.

 

“I can’t go there.” Deucalion says, stopping in his tracks, balking.

 

“Why?” Chris growls, getting impatient. Why must everything be so hard?

 

“It’s another alpha’s territory.” he responds, as though it is obvious.  


 

Chris turns slowly. “You’re not an alpha.”

 

“Yes, but just because I’m an omega doesn’t mean I’m permitted to waltz into and through another pack’s territory as I please.” The wolf explains, sounding a little annoyed. It nearly makes Chris smile to hear that there’s still some personality buried in the wolf.

 

“Derek knows we’re coming.” Chris answers, assuming that will put an end to it.

 

“There are proper ways to--” Deucalion continues before Chris cuts him off.

 

“And Derek doesn’t know them. We’re leaving.”

 

Deucalion hesitates one more moment and then obeys, following Chris out to the car.

An echo of Peter’s voice ghosts across Chris’ mind.  Alpha , it whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING EXPLANATION: In this chapter Peter is still rigidly following Deucalion's rules, including that he can only eat from Deucalion's (or someone else's, since that wasn't actually specified) hand. Since Chris, Derek and co. don't know about the rule, they are simply putting food in front of him. As a result Peter goes through a period of time where he won't eat (although he will drink nutritious things like smoothies, etc). This lasts only until the pack figures out why. <3


	41. In Which Wolves Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK GOD IT'S FINISHED. UUUUUUUUGH U_U I LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> ALSO, to prevent this from happening again next month. NO GUARANTEE THAT THE NEXT UPDATE WILL HAPPEN AUGUST 19. There will certainly be an update September 19, but as I've said, I'm moving across country in August and I just don't know if I'll get to it. But once I'm all settled I'll keep chugging on :D
> 
> Deucalion's perspective for the first time! Interesting stuff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: heavy mentions of dub-con/non-con elements. I imagine it won't be much of a problem for anyone who read the rest of the story, but spoilery further explanations in the end notes if you'd like to be sure.

The loft is not what Deucalion expects.

It is somehow both run down and well appointed. Only very specific luxuries taken into consideration.

Deucalion follows Chris at some distance. He knows of the man by reputation: an Argent. But he also has vague memories of threatening him, being threatened by him, taunting him.

This hunter is in love with Peter too.

Not that Deucalion can fault him. Who wouldn’t be?

The real question is not whether they love Peter, but rather who Peter himself loves.

They step up to the door and Chris pauses, turning to him.

“I want to warn you. Peter may not be…fully himself.” Chris says.

Deucalion tenses. What further horrors of his own making will be revealed? What else has he done to the man he loves?

“He may not know you. He seems to remember things at random, sometimes not at all, sometimes he remembers things wrong.” Chris shakes his head, “We think he’s getting better, slowly."

Deucalion clenches his teeth and steels himself for what is sure to break his heart. But this isn’t about him. This is for Peter. He nods to Chris.

Chris slides open the loft door and they both step in.

Deucalion’s senses prickle at the feel of a powerful alpha nearby. He and Derek lock eyes and the alpha growls a deep warning.

He cannot back down. He needs to stay for Peter, but he bows his head to the alpha, meek, not a threat.

Then Peter is coming down a set of spiral stairs and the alpha and the hunter no longer exist. There is only Peter, only Peter and a floating sensation to remind that he still exists.

Peter meets his eyes, slight confusion, coming down to see what has gotten the alpha’s hackles up and there is a moment before recognition registers. Just Peter looking at him before he interprets the visual data and identifies the face. It is a moment of painful hope and creeping insidious despair.

Peter stops on the stairs and the air is thick.

Peter’s eyes widen with realization and his mouth curves up and up and open and he is smiling, grinning unabashedly.

He springs down the stairs and strides over to Deucalion enveloping him in a tight embrace.

It is too much what Deucalion has hoped for that he can’t even reciprocate before Peter backs off.

Then Peter’s hands are against his cheeks, peering into his eyes.

“Look at you.” Peter says, and the smile is even in his voice.

Peter laughs.

He turns to Chris and Derek.

“That’s some of my best work.” Peter hums in contentment. He sounds _proud_.

Peter laughs again, seeming unaware of the tension in the room, the animosity, the blame. To him, they are all on the same side.

Peter peers into his eyes again, turning his head this way and that so they catch the light.

“I wondered if you’d be able to see again.” Peter smiles, “I’m glad.”

“Peter, I…” He chokes. There is nothing he can say to explain his remorse, his regret. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Peter only looks confused, “For what?”

“For…everything! Everything that I…what I did to you.” He can hardly speak above a rough whisper.

Peter scoffs, as if all his suffering, all the pain Deucalion caused him, all the turmoil, were nothing.

“You were possessed, Deuce. You didn’t do anything to me.”

Just like that, Peter absolves him. It seems forgiveness takes him no effort, but it is harder to separate the actions of his own psyche from the influence of the demon.

“If only it were that simple.” Deucalion says to him.

Peter frowns and shrugs, “I manipulated you plenty as well and I knew that you were…not yourself. Nor was I under any outside influences. There were other things I could have done, other strategies, but this was the best one.” Peter’s fists clench, as if he is defending himself against some internal dissenting voice, “I wronged you as well.”

“So we’re even, is that it?” Deucalion asks, incredulous. What can Peter possibly think he had done? Deucalion is the one who forced Peter to be his beta, his lover, his mate. He is the one who trapped Peter, who tortured him, terrorized him, _raped_ him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Peter shrugs, “We all do what we have to.”

Deucalion shakes his head. Unfathomable. Peter has always been unfathomable to him.

“I almost killed you.” He whispers, “I remember deciding whether or not I would. I remember being so close. What I did to you…And this—“ Deucalion reaches for the mate mark he knows is hidden under Peter’s shirt.

Peter shoves his hand away before he can reach it. His face is stormy with anguish.

“Look, we all got out alive, isn’t that enough? I did the best I could with what I had. I knew what could happen. I knew what the consequences might be and I chose to do it anyway.” Peter huffs and stalks away, “If you think about it, between the two of us, I had more agency than you.”

“I don’t care.” Derek breaks in. “Peter, you seem…less confused. Are you feeling better?”

Peter laughs, faced away from the three of them, “Better.” He takes a breath and turns around to face them.

“I feel coherent.” He says, considering, “Before I was…fragmented. I know some memories are still wrong. Pieces have moved, but,” he shrugs, “at least everything seems to fit together. I can function.”

“Good.” Derek replies, then he turns to Deucalion. “You can leave now.”

“Derek.” Chris says standing next to him, stone-faced, but his tone is exasperated. They have spoken about this moment.

Derek growls.

Peter shies and steps back and Deucalion bites down hard on the instinct to step in front of him, between his mate and the alpha.

“Derek, go out.” Chris says and it’s final.

The young alpha rises, snapping at Chris, but the man simply stands and stares him down.

Derek turns and marches out of the loft. He and Peter bow their heads and turn, as though they have not seen the exchange, or aren’t paying attention. Nothing to see here.

The door slams home and Deucalion can finally risk flicking his eyes up to Peter.

Peter who, surprisingly, is smirking to himself.

Peter turns to Chris. “No wonder I thought you were the alpha.” He laughs.

Deucalion regards Chris more carefully. Peter is right. Chris has just ordered an alpha, not convinced, not manipulated, ordered. Succesfully. Without any seeming effort whatsoever.

“Peter, you’re not—“ Deucalion wants to tell Peter that it’s not his fault and _how_ can the man be blaming himself? Even if he holds Deucalion absolved, the demon is certainly at fault, and the darach, but Peter?

Peter cuts him off and stalks into the kitchen. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Deucalion nods reluctantly.

He hears Chris sigh and walk over to the sitting room area of the one-room loft.

“Come on, there are some answers I want, from the both of you.” He says and settles into an armchair.

Deucalion glances at Peter who is studiously not looking at him. He follows Chris and sits on the sofa, near enough for politics, but the separation the furniture gives them is…safe.

Chris waits, staring at Peter, just waiting silently. His intent is enough to get Peter to huff and walk over to the two of them.

Deucalion sputters, nearly choking on his tongue when Peter suddenly drops to the floor between the two of them, sitting cross-legged, bracing his back against the corner of the couch.

Peter seems unaware of the sudden tenseness and, to Deucalion’s surprise, Chris recovers within moments, relaxing back into his seat, an air of confidence that Deucalion remembers, but no longer feels, wrapping around them.

It is strange how comforting it is to see Chris relax, how reassuring. And Chris is so sharp, watching Deucalion with those clear grey eyes.

“You were an alpha for a long time.” Chris says.

It strikes Deucalion then, what Chris means and how right he is. This is how it feels to be an omega, a beta. They look to Chris first for an interpretation of the situation. It is indescribably strange.

He had been so young when he became an alpha. He cannot separate being a beta and being a child in his mind. Now he will get that opportunity.

Peter is oddly quiet, Deucalion notices. A glance startles him again. Peter seems hardly aware, as though he is dozing off or meditating.

“He’s fine.” Chris says, noticing Deucalion’s discomfort and worry. “He does this sometimes. It calms him.”

“You seem to be taking this all in stride.” Deucalion notes. The man has hardly flinched at any of the developments. Perhaps he has just gotten used to it over the past few days.

Deucalion doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

Chris regards Peter with warm eyes, “I’ve seen similar. He hasn’t done this before, so I assume it was one of your _rules_?”

“I have broken him.” Deucalion says by way of a reply.

Chris scoffs, “Don’t be so dramatic. He’s been better just now with you here than I’ve seen him since the exorcism.”

Deucalion hangs his head. It isn’t really a comfort to know that Peter has been _worse_.

“That’s good news.” Chris says firmly, “He’s getting better. He’s healing.”

Deucalion takes shaky breath. He wants to tell Chris that Peter wouldn’t need healing without him. He wouldn’t be so utterly ruined, kneeling at the feet of a hunter and the monster who hurt him so badly. But this isn’t about him. This isn’t about the past. He can’t change that. He needs to be here for Peter now.

“What can I do?” Deucalion asks and why does it feel so natural to look to this hunter for direction?

“Join Derek’s pack. Stay here.” Chris says. “He’ll heal better with his pack and his mate around him. You will too.”

Deucalion pauses, “I’m not hurt.”

“You were possessed for, what, four years?” Chris asks, “I would bet my best handgun that you didn’t get off scot free.”

Deucalion looks away. “How would I know? It’s been so long. I don’t know my own mind.”

Chris shrugs, “You’ll learn.”

Deucalion shakes his head at Chris’ simple, brutal solutions.

“How did you become involved with this? A hunter in a wolf pack?”

Chris sighs. “It’s a long story. Mostly it can be explained by the phrase ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’.”

Deucalion chuckles, “Must have been some enemy.”

Chris hums, lost in thought.

Deucalion looks to Peter, so close and so different from the bright, willful young man that Deucalion remembers.

“Derek hasn’t taken him back yet.” Deucalion observes. He can feel the pack bond dangling like a cut thread.

“We were afraid he would resist.” Chris admits, “He didn’t seem sure who we were or how we fit into his memories.”

Deucalion nods. “We are…staying here then? All of us?” He doesn’t exactly relish the idea of staying in close living quarters with the Hale alpha. He is not so well controlled as his mother was.

Chris leans back and Deucalion wonders if he’s though about it.

“It would not be wise to bring Peter back to the penthouse.” Deucalion admits. “He reacted…poorly to a sense-memory. I do not think his impression will have improved.”

“I’ll make arrangements. We may stay in my apartment.” Chris says, fingers steepled. He is thinking. Plotting.

Deucalion recalls that he has a daughter, but doesn’t want to inquire. The hunter might interpret it as a threat when it isn’t.

Peter stirs and lets out a long yawn, eyes blinking and clearing of that meditative haze, like he is waking from a sleep.

The yawn is catchy and Deucalion finds himself open mouthed and hazy in response.

Chris is still as sharp as ever.

“You haven’t been sleeping well.” He observes, eyes like a knife, cutting through the layers.

Peter rises, not acknowledging either of them and pads off to the large bed in the corner of the loft.

“I have been…” tormented “preoccupied.” Deucalion admits. He sleeps and dreams and wakes and does not sleep again.

Chris jerks a chin towards the bed.

“Sleep.” He says, “I’ll watch over you both.”

And he is rising before he realizes that he has made a decision. He hesitates now, on his feet.

“It’s Derek’s bed, though Peter’s been using it now.” Chris says, shrewd again, “It isn’t improper, if that’s what you’re concerned about. You are mates, after all.”

And there it is, just the slightest hint of bitterness, just the tiniest slip of control. This man, this hunter has somehow tamed them all.

He has allied himself with wolves against his own people. He risked his own life confronting a powerful alpha to save Peter. He is strong enough to make the decision to send Peter back to Deucalion when it was strategically necessary and now…Now he selflessly mends the rift between Peter and Deucalion regardless of his own feelings.

Deucalion takes a few steps towards the bed, towards Peter. Peter, who is so vulnerable right now. Peter, who needs a strong alpha and a strong mate to protect him and help him heal, who doesn’t need to be confronted by his tormenter at every turn.

Deucalion feels the urge to flee again.

How could Peter benefit from his presence? It is his fault. He isn’t worthy. He isn’t strong enough.

A warm rough hand clasps the back of his neck and somehow everything is calm.

“You need to sleep.” A deep voice insists, “You’re not thinking clearly.”

The hand pushes gently, encouraging him forward, leading him to their den where his mate is already slumbering. The hand guides him down into soft blankets and the comforting smell of familiar wolves.

“Sleep.” The voice encourages.

“Yes, alpha.” He breathes in the scent of Peter and someone else, and is instantly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is from Deucalion's point of view, he only knows that Peter was his captive and basically had to do whatever he said, so as far as he knows Peter was not consenting to have sex with him in the previous chapters. However readers will note that Peter most certainly WAS consenting in so far as everyone was able given demonic possessions and power imbalances and all that. <3


	42. Brief Illustration Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, as you may know I'm moving across the country (today, actually, I'm getting on a plane in a few hours :O). So there's no chapter this week, BUT the lovely give-me-monet on tumblr has graciously made a fan art for this fic for Chapter 19. THANK YOU!!!!
> 
> If you like the pic go ahead over to this link and give her a like! http://give-me-monet.tumblr.com/post/125238962565/peter-hale-x-chris-argent-anyone-how-about-we
> 
> Oh, and her commissions are open!! ;D


	43. In Which the Hunter Becomes the Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ugh, this was a rough one. In other news, the move went fine. Grad school is terrible and I'm probably gonna stop. :D but I wrote this for you all! I hope you enjoy and that there aren't too many incomprehensible bits... :O There's like...a lot of crying in this chapter too...I almost called it, "In which there are weepy wolves" :P
> 
> Been thinking about trying my hand at writing, like publishing original works. Whadya think?
> 
> I hope you all enjoooooy! Also the formatting seems to be somewhat messed up :/ GAH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! I'm finally calling it! I know it's been like...god, probably a year or two? since my last update, and I really should have done this then (or maybe even a chapter or two ago), but it's OVER!
> 
> I may eventually do an epilogue, but for the sake of CLOSURE, I am finally admitting the story is finished!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who stuck with me through this INSANE project! :D I can't believe the great response of everyone and honestly, I can't even believe I wrote 120K+ words of ANYthing. You all made this such a great, wonderful experience and I'm glad I could share it! <3 <3

The wolves settle into sleep quickly.

 

Chris hasn’t gotten the answers he had intended to pursue, but he thinks this all might work. Things might turn out...fine.

 

It’s a strange thought, not one he’s been used to recently.

 

It doesn’t feel particularly comforting at the moment, watching Peter and Deucalion sleeping together, two strong clever wolves who have both acknowledged him as alpha.

 

He has no idea what to do with that.

 

Except, apparently, invite the wolves into his home.

 

His gaze wanders over the two men, curled up together with just a sheet thrown haphazard over the two of them. He lingers on Peter’s face.

 

All bruises and scrapes are gone, although they did heal slowly for a wolf. His face is less inscrutable than when he is awake, less ready for sarcasm and censure, although they’ve seen little of that stinging whip crack wit lately and more confusion.

 

His attention shifts.

 

Deucalion looks worse than Peter. Heavy bags under his eyes and shadows beneath his cheekbones. There is a furrow in his brow even now and Chris wonders if the wolf is dreaming, if the demon haunts him even now, as a memory.

 

They make an appealing picture.

 

Chris starts as he realizes what he’s just thought. Of course it’s just as likely that he’s jealous of Deucalion, that it might be nice to curl up with Peter, maybe. It might not though.

 

Chris runs a hand over his face. He needs a drink, badly, but this isn’t the time. He wonders how long the wolves will sleep. If he, himself will be able to sleep tonight. He’d rather not leave the wolves alone, especially with Derek likely to come back soon. He doesn’t know what the young alpha will do at the sight of them.

 

In fact, the sooner they leave the better. He’s not about to wake them now, of course. He’ll give them at least a few hours and if Derek makes a fuss, that’s just too bad.

More coffee, he thinks. It reminds him that Deucalion drinks tea, which is somehow amusing, perhaps even endearing.

 

The coffee is ready too soon and Chris is left with nothing to do but sit and wait and think about how he’s been losing sleep too, how he’d love to just crawl into bed, how maybe he’d like to crawl into that bed.

 

He shakes off the feeling.

 

It’s not the time. It will never be the time. He just needs to get used to that.

 

Chris’ ears pick up the sound of a sigh and a snuffle and Peter is digging further into the blankets. Chris tenses and turns away. This is going to be a lot more painful than he thought.

 

Peter is restless, mumbling, fidgeting with the blankets. Chris wonders if he is really asleep.

 

But the mumbling gets louder and Chris can make out the words, “No, no, no,” The wolf whimpers, “Talia! Get them...No! No!”

 

Chris leaps up shaken from his stupor and runs for the bed. Deucalion seems to wake at the same time, disoriented.

 

Chris grabs Peter by the shoulder and shakes him, but it’s too late. Peter is flung from sleep, screaming. He flails and Chris has to dodge or risk being eviscerated. He hears the sheets rip and panting and Peter has retreated to put his back to the headboard, curled up tight in a ball arms curled around, shielding himself from the outside world.

 

Deucalion is nearly on the opposite side of the bed, looking almost as horrified as Peter.

 

“I did this to him.” He whispers softly, to himself, Chris thinks.

 

“Shut up.” Chris says, trying to decide how best to proceed.

 

“He was dreaming of the fire.” Deucalion says by way of an explanation.

 

“Your family didn’t start the fire. Mine did. It’s closer to being my fault than yours.” Chris says, almost absently, wondering if approaching Peter might still be dangerous.

 

“Peter.” He calls softly, kneeling on the bed. “Peter, can you hear me?”

 

Peter gives a shaky exhale. So he’s calming down, knows where he is.

 

“Peter,” Chris says, keeping half an eye on Deucalion to make sure he doesn’t flee, “is it alright if I touch you?”

 

There is no verbal answer. Instead Peter reaches out blindly with one arm, his head still buried in his knees.

 

Chris moves up the bed into arm’s reach and allows himself to be pulled right next to Peter and carefully wraps his arms around the wolf.

 

Peter is fever-hot and he smells like sweat and fear but also like the forest on a cool night and Chris tries not to enjoy holding him.

 

There is a ripping noise. Chris looks up and Deucalion looks painfully conflicted. Chris even manages to really feel sorry for him.

 

Peter peeks up over his knees, peering at Deucalion and makes a short keening sound Chris reaches out to Deucalion with one arm, just as Peter had reached out to him.

 

The conflict in Deucalion’s face deepens and distance between them on the bed seems to widen.

 

Chris wonders, for the first time, just how deeply they feel that he is their alpha, if he can use that.

 

Chris takes a breath and his expression smoothes out to a benevolently stern one and he meets Deucalion eyes.

 

“Come.” He demands calmly, arm still outstretched. Deucalion still hesitates. “You won’t hurt him. He needs you.”

 

Deucalion turns his gaze away from Chris and slinks up the bed like a berated dog.

 

Peter reaches out and snags him pulling him close, just as he had done with Chris. He unfolds a little this time and pushes his face into Deucalion’s shoulder.

At last Deucalion seems to realize that Peter wants him to touch, to hold, to comfort and he surrounds Peter in a broad embrace, encompassing his whole frame.

As he advances, Chris retreats, trying to give the wolves some room, but Peter holds tightly to him and refuses to let go.

 

Peter has retreated to his knees again, but Deucalion is giving him these puppy dog eyes and what is it with wolves being so pitiful that Chris can’t help himself?

 

He gives a frown, but adjusts his posture and settles against the two men and wonders how he ended up here, of all places.

 

And what is his role in this? Is he their chaperon? Is he the alpha? Is he just some meddling busy body? He can’t decide, but he can’t stop either.

 

Once Peter is ready they’ll leave for his apartment. Chris pets Peter’s hair absently, gently calming him. Deucalion and Peter are twined so close, it’s awkward to try to comfort Peter and not touch Deucalion at the same time. It isn’t really his place to be touching Peter either, but that, at least, he was invited to do.

 

The wolves nestle and nudge at each other, not restlessly, but in constant reassurance and they emit soft whines and sighs. They are so physically in tune that Chris couldn’t accurately assign a specific sound to a particular wolf. It’s odd, Chris muses, how nonverbal the wolves become when they are stressed or hurt.

 

Chris tries to remain neutral, comforting while not feeling anything himself, ignoring the awkwardness, remaining aloof, and he’s sure he’s also accidentally petted Deucalion’s hair, as close as the two are, and he’s glad they seem so focused on each other because otherwise they’d easily be able to detect his blush and the racing of his heart.

 

The wolves calm quickly, but every moment spent in this odd imbalanced threeway embrace seems to take three times as long to Chris.

 

It isn’t really that he minds the act itself. He just doesn’t like not knowing where he stands. When it seems like Peter has relaxed so much that he might fall asleep again, Chris withdraws.

 

The wolves cling harder to each other at his retreat and stare at him with wide eyes.

 

It is...strange and frustrating to be thrust into this role with no warning, no preparation, without a previous relationship to build off. He hardly knows Peter as anything besides a potential threat and Deucalion is less than an acquaintance. They have made him their alpha and he finds, gazing down at them, so unsure of his intentions, he cannot refuse the role, that he doesn’t even want to right now.

 

He wants to protect them.

 

He gives them what he hopes is an encouraging smile, considering how off kilter he feels himself.

 

“Come on, we should head to my apartment.” Chris pauses, trying to decide what else he could say that might be reassuring. He wants to just tell them that he’s going to protect them. That they’re his wolves now, but it’s not his place. It’s tricky to navigate when you can’t establish your own position. “You’ll be more comfortable there.”

 

At least there won’t be Derek to account for. The other alpha clearly puts them on edge almost as much as they put Derek on edge. Derek can worry about the pups. Chris will take care of the adults.

 

 

The wolves remain closely intertwined as they make their way outside to Chris’ car and they curl up together in the back seat.

 

“Is there anything you need, Peter, that isn’t at the apartment?” Chris asks, hoping to get a verbal answer. The wolves have nodded to him and ducked their heads and allowed themselves to be herded, but still haven’t spoken yet.

 

“No, it’s fine. Everything I need is there.” Peter says, although he still sounds a little distant, like he’s speaking through fog.

 

Chris nods and takes it in stride allowing the wolves to remain cuddled up without interruption during the short drive.

 

As they pull into the lot however, Chris must break the silence.

 

“Deucalion.” He says, and it’s strange but he thinks it’s the first time he’s addressed the man directly by name, and he briefly wonders how he got the name, if it was given or taken or made, “I’ll take Peter up to my apartment. Can you get your things and his from the penthouse?”

 

Chris watches Deucalion nod in the rear view mirror, shake himself and then reply “Yes, I can do that.” He seems to be emerging from whatever state the two of them had been in much more quickly than Peter.

 

“Good.” Chris steps out of the car and walks around as the wolves emerge and disentangle.

 

“Alright.” Chris says and starts walking towards the lobby as the wolves gaze at him waiting to follow his lead and that’s going to take some getting used to. He’s used to obedience from the hunters under his command, not from werewolves.

 

He leads them through the lobby and to the elevator, although he doesn’t use it on a day to day basis, he thinks it might be a little less stimulus for the overwrought wolves.

He and Peter get out on the 41st floor. He ushers Peter out in front of him and then steps out himself, holding the door open, he gives Deucalion a look, searching. He’d better not run again. Chris needs Deucalion to be an ally in this. He can’t take care of Peter alone.

 

Deucalion nods holding his gaze, but swiftly looks away and Chris releases the door.

 

He turns to Peter who hovers close by, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

 

Chris unlocks the door to his apartment for the werewolf and not for the first time thinks that he hasn’t thought this through entirely.

 

But Allison is still at Lydia’s on what seems like an extended sleepover. Lydia’s mother must think Chris is a terrible parent. Perhaps he can impose on the McCall’s to take Allison for a few nights. At least Melissa is appraised of the situation and knows why.

 

He guides Peter into the kitchen thinking idly, for Allison’s sake, this can’t last long.

 

“Coffee? Tea?” Chris offers casually.

 

“Cream, no sugar, right?” Chris remembers having seen him make it once himself at Derek’s.

 

Peter gives him a strange look, some sharpness returning to his gaze, “Yes.”

 

“I notice things. It’s part of what I do.” Chris replies and then wants to kick himself for bringing up that he’s a hunter when this werewolf and his mate have calmly followed him into his den.

 

Peter chuckles lightly, “Part of what I do, too.” He replies and Chris supposes it’s true in a vague sense.

 

They are quiet in the aftermath of thinking about just what it is that Peter does. The first thing Chris thinks of is manipulate, although recently it’s seemed impossible to think of him this way. His ability to manipulate seems to have been steadily declining. Perhaps he’s just exhausted or perhaps it’s simply that his manipulations weren’t as false as anyone believed. The descent of his act into reality

 

But the next thing that occurs to him is simply ‘martyr’. Of course reality is not as simple as either of those things.

 

He coughs to clear his mind and hands Peter a mug of coffee, cream, no sugar, just like he likes, and takes one for himself, sugar, no cream.

 

He watches Peter sip the coffee and his face transforms for a moment to someone enjoying such a simple pleasure. It lasts only as long as a single sip and then his eyes wander to the ceiling.

 

The penthouse. Deucalion.

 

“It’s been…” Peter starts softly. It’s been a while. It’s been too long, perhaps.

 

“Stay here. I’ll go help.” Chris says setting down his mug and rising. He looks back at Peter from the doorway. “You’ll be alright by yourself.” He says and it’s not a question.

 

Peter only gives him a smirk and raises his glass to him in a salute.

 

The sass is reassuring. Peter is coming back to himself slowly, but surely.

 

Chris leaves.

 

 

Chris takes the stairs this time. It’s only one floor after all.

 

He can’t help but feel little frustrated. Peter is the one who’s been hurt over and over to save them all! Deucalion needs to just pull himself together.

 

But as Chris thinks these things he knows they are altogether unfair. Deucalion was possessed for years. Who can really say which experience was worse? They’ll never know and perhaps it’s better that way.

 

The door, thankfully, is cracked open. Convenient, since Chris doesn’t have a key.

 

Chris enters cautiously. Deucalion is still a werewolf and not one that Chris knows very well. He’s still dangerous.

 

Chris walks slowly through the entrance way glad that he’s been there already, even if just the once, he knows the layout.

 

He hears a small noise, a hitch of breath, mumbling, a sob.

 

Chris walks more confidently now, through the rooms to the main living room.

 

Deucalion is sitting on the floor against the wall, staring dazedly at the scratches in the floor. Chris isn’t even sure that Deucalion knows he’s there until the wolf turns to him and speaks “What did I do to him? How could I…?”

 

He devolves into ragged sobs. “I hurt him. I would have killed him.”

 

Chris sighs and tries to tap into some sort of comforting side and is going through the seemingly pre-generated list of platitudes that everyone naturally knows. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have stopped it. You were a victim too.

 

Then, his mind flashes on Peter and Deucalion comforting each other in Derek’s loft and in the car and he doesn’t stop to think he just acts on that instinct.

 

He walks gently over to Deucalion, kneels at his side and roughly grabs him in a strong embrace, arms surrounding the man’s torso and practically tugging him over.

 

Deucalion must be surprised, hell Chris is surprised, because he lets out a wet gasp and tenses. Chris figures he’s come this far and it would be unbearably awkward to back off now, so he nuzzles hard against Deucalion’s neck and chin.

 

Deucalion takes a hitched breath and then burrows his face into Chris’ neck and whines.

 

Chris feels a surge of triumph that his attempt was successful. And perhaps it isn’t completely unappealing to have the wolf shuddering in his arms, to have someone strong and proud under his protection. It doesn’t help that, without the villainous sneer Deucalion has a certain...appeal and in Chris arms he smells like the desert on a hot day.

 

Chris viciously shoves these thoughts out of his mind. It’s not right to be enjoying the wolf’s suffering and certainly not thinking about...thing like that.

 

He pets Deucalion’s hair, just as he had Peter’s and it’s becoming oddly familiar to comfort wolves like this.

 

Deucalion is too tired to stay worked up for long, for which Chris is grateful.

 

“Come on. Peter will be worried.” Chris says softly into the wolf’s ear.

 

The wolf nods and Chris can see him shoring up his emotional barriers. It’s not very effective, but he’s at least holding things together for now.

 

“I got most things packed up.” Deucalion says, gesturing towards the bedroom. “The rest can wait, I suppose.”

 

Chris nods. He can’t imagine the lease will be up within the next day. If it’s so overwhelming for the wolves to be here then Chris can get the rest himself later.

He rises and offers a hand to Deucalion.

 

Deucalion takes it, though he hesitates. When they are both standing face to face, arms still clasped at the wrists.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Deucalion asks, sounding as tragically confused as Peter had, although perhaps slightly more accusatory, “You're a hunter.”

 

“I am…” Chris shakes his head. “I don’t know what I am anymore.” He pauses but all he can offer is, “There’s a new code.”

 

Deucalion freezes and Chris continues, “We protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

 

Deucalion gives a startled laugh, “And do I count among those? I’m not sure if I should be insulted.”

 

Chris shrugs. “No one can protect themselves all the time.”

 

Deucalion gives an appraising look. “You are not what I expected from an Argent.”

 

“You’ve run into many Argents?” Chris asks, mostly joking as they retrieve the packed bags from the two bedrooms.

 

“Too many.” Deucalion’s voice is suddenly far away and pensive, “Perhaps I’ll tell you about it someday.”

 

Chris nods. It is a tentative offer of a future where they trust each other and they share a moment of camaraderie as equals, not as rescuer or jailer or victim.

 

“Well, come on,” Chris says, breaking the moment. “We’ve been gone longer than five minutes. There’s no telling what Peter’s up to.”

 

Deucalion chuckles. “He hasn’t changed at all, has he?"

 

“I hope not.” Chris replies.

 

Things aren’t back to normal. Peter isn’t back to normal and maybe he never will be, but for now they’re all right and they have time to heal, to recover, to rest and Chris isn't going to bother making plans further than that.


End file.
